Brown Leafed Vertigo
by Foxflare
Summary: AU. 15-year-old orphan Kira Izuru is sent to Pure Souls Foster Home, and attends its sister institution, Seireitei Academy. Neither, he will learn, are aptly named. GinKira; also AizenGin, eventual ByaRen, KenUno, & many others.
1. Little Dead

**BROWN LEAFED VERTIGO**

* * *

**I. Little Dead  
**

* * *

Shiba Ganju hated this route, hated it with a passion every time Central called in and assigned him to it. Same fuckin' thing every time. He'd even invested in a whiteboard to save on paper for all the times he'd been stuck at the airport, feeling like a statue composed of equal parts awkward and stupid, holding up a sign scrawled with an unfamiliar name, although by now he hardly needed it -- he could recognize the type at fifty yards. The names and the faces were always different, but they all had those same damned _eyes_ -- those starving-kicked-abandoned-in-a-box-and-desperate-puppy eyes that made his guts knot together with his throat, and then it was fifty kilometers of hollow stares out the window, at the floor, occasionally in the rearview mirror, where they always managed to catch him staring back with the same damned expression they'd probably been gettin' from everybody else who knew: you poor fuckin' bastard, I'm sorry, it doesn't mean dick but I'm sorry anyway. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.

And despite himself, Ganju always was. He'd brought it up to his sister only once -- how much he hated this route. Kuukaku had punched him in the ear and told him to fuckin' grow a pair already and "Che, you think _you_ hate it? How d'ya think _they_ feel? And they're not gettin' paid ta feel it. Fare's fair, idiot, life ain't; so suck it up and _drive._"

And so Ganju sucked it up and _drove,_ when today Kuukaku had given him the order again. He'd given his beloved taxi, Bonnie-chan, a once-over with a damp rag and filled the gas hog to the brim and made sure the sun-bleached red lettering of Shiba Cab Company on the side was mud-free and legible, because Kuukaku measured her advertising spending by the kilometer; he'd scribbled the name his sister had given him on the whiteboard and made good time to the airport and while he waited he hoped the traffic would be just as scarce on the way out again, because he didn't give a shit about the fare when so much _unfair_ was silently screaming at him from the backseat; and he'd found the hollow eyes and shoved the lone suitcase into Bonnie-chan's trunk and hated the route for what felt like the thousandth time when his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and _sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry_ met that kicked-puppy stare.

This one was blue. The blue ones, he thought, were the worst.

And this boy seemed to take that title up a notch. He looked halfway to ghosthood himself, extra-pale, extra-thin, washed out and diluted with too many tears.

Ganju looked away, focused on the road he didn't really need to see anymore to follow. Almost there. Two more easy curves and then the gates like a ribcage, pearly white bars like bones. The place was like a fucking compound and he always had to push aside thoughts that echoed "kennel" and "strays" and "put to sleep."

His sweaty finger slipped once off the button for the intercom. A moment later, a bored voice crackled through the speaker.

#Yes?#

"Shiba Cab Company. Dropping one off."

A beat, and then the obnoxious buzz of the opening gates. Ganju guided his Bonnie-chan up the drive that led to the large white house, past the stone-and-brass plaque that reminded him of a grave marker.

**Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children**

He always misread the first word as "poor."

Ganju put the cab in park but let the engine idle. He popped the trunk and got out and, after a minute, the kid followed suit. Ganju handed the boy his suitcase as one of the orphanage's massive front doors creaked open and the usual man -- brown hair, glasses, youngish -- stepped outside. The smile on his face was small and apologetic and utterly fuckin' _insulting,_ Ganju thought, but bit his tongue. Without asking the price of the fare or otherwise deigning to acknowledge his existence, the man slipped the taxi driver a neatly folded wad of cash. Ganju, as well, didn't thank him for it, and pointedly counted it in front of him. It was more than enough. It was always more than enough, which somehow made Ganju feel. . .oily, instead of pleased, like he was taking a bribe to keep quiet or somethin'. But fare's fair. Right.

Wordlessly he stuffed the cash into his back pocket and got back into his cab. Only when he was halfway down the drive did he risk a second look in the rearview mirror. The man had his arm around the boy loosely, with consideration that felt almost calculated, and was guiding him towards the great house.

_Good luck, Kira Izuru,_ Ganju thought as he passed thankfully back through the skeletal gates to freedom. _You're gonna need it._

* * *

"Aizen Sousuke."

Izuru took the bespectacled man's outstretched hand automatically, and allowed his own to be shaken in a firm grip that he lacked the will to match.

"I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but it's a pleasure, nonetheless, to make your acquaintance. Kira Izuru -- am I pronouncing it correctly?"

Nod.

"Good. I'm usually so bad with names. . .here, let me take your suitcase and I'll give you the grand tour. But first. . ." He cupped his free hand around his mouth and shouted in the vicinity of the front steps, "Renji, put out that cigarette! I can smell it from here."

Izuru watched silently as grumble of displeasure came from behind one of the columns that supported the piece of roof jutting out over the front steps. It was followed by a hastily exhaled plume of smoke and one of the most unusual heads Izuru had ever encountered peering out from behind the stone. Cherry-red hair pulled back in a high ponytail topped the scowling face of a boy who looked to be a little older than Izuru himself. A purple bandana folded into a makeshift headband obscured a pair of jagged, tribal-style tattoos on the boy's furrowed brow. Inky marks of a similar pattern zigzagged their way down his neck and disappeared briefly into the collar of his white t-shirt ("Red Pineapple," it read in English on the front; a fitting descriptor), only to emerge past the hems of his sleeves and end in sharp points near his elbows.

"How'd you know it was me?" the boy groused.

"It's always you, Renji."

"Che. So's this him?" Renji's dark gaze flickered over the new arrival appraisingly.

Aizen nodded. "Kira Izuru, meet Abarai Renji. You'll be rooming with him, and yes, I'm sorry to say he is always this polite."

Renji only flashed a cocky grin. "I've got charm _and_ class."

"If by 'class' you mean 'time to work on that extra credit paper Tousen-sensei is so kindly allowing you to write so that you actually stand a chance of passing Civics this semester,' then yes, Renji, you do."

"Nngh. It's three more weeks before that's due!"

"Cutting it a bit close, then, aren't we?"

"Oi!"

"Library, Abarai. Now. And I want you there until dinnertime. This paper is the last string I'm going to pull for you with Tousen-sensei. I will not allow his faith in me be abused by your laziness, and that aside, you've worked too hard and come too far to give up on yourself now."

"Jeez, ration the melodrama, would you, Sousuke? I ain't -- I'm _not_ giving up on anything. I'm not stupid."

"No," Aizen readily agreed, "you're not. Now go and prove it, and later on you can show Kira-kun here the ropes of Pure Souls."

Renji bowed with exaggerated depth -- "Hai, Taichou!" -- then gave Izuru a sympathetic smile. "Be seeing you, roomie."

"He's a good kid," Aizen said, turning back to Izuru. "A little boisterous at times, but a good roommate."

Izuru studied the departing redhead's back, but said nothing. Aizen cleared his throat.

"Anyway, speaking of that room. . ."

He led Izuru into the large house, into a modest genkan painted white, the floor paneled with blond wood. The walls were lined with scuff marks and hastily discarded shoes. Izuru toed off his black Converse and nudged them into a corner, while Aizen traded his environmentally-friendly-looking sandals for a pair of well-worn beige slippers.

Two staircases stood on either side of the hall just beyond the genkan.

"Left one leads leads to the south wing, right to the north, the boys' rooms and girls' rooms, respectively," Aizen explained. "A good way to remember it at first is to think of the phrase, 'Women are always right.'" He winked. "Once you've settled in, if you want to visit a female friend in her room, the only rule of thumb we have around here is that the door is to remain open at all times. TV room," he gestured at the open doorway to his right, then to his left, "sitting room -- it doesn't see much use -- mess hall, kitchen, Momo-chan."

A small form that had been spelunking the enormous stainless steel refrigerator spun around, revealing itself to be a girl of about thirteen, with rounded cheeks and brown hair done up in a cloth-covered odango.

"Sousuke-san! You snuck up on me!" she gasped, blushing to match the plateful of watermelon wedges she held in quivering hands.

Aizen chuckled apologetically. "Sorry. Hinamori Momo, this is Kira Izuru, our newest."

The girl nodded sweetly. "Nice to meet you."

"Hey," Izuru mumbled.

Aizen raised an eyebrow at him. "Ah, you _do_ speak. Good to know."

"Sorry."

"Please, don't be -- I only meant that such is not always the case here. No one's going to judge you for being quiet at first, Kira-kun. Isn't that right, Momo-chan?"

"That's right, Sousuke-san!" Momo beamed.

Game room, Aizen's office, library ("Renji! Be still my heart, you're actually here!" "Blow me." "Pardon?" "I said, you know me! Study study study, work work work. . ."); finally, the tour ended in a reasonably spacious bedroom that was somehow divided starkly in two despite the absence of any visible lines. One half, presumably Izuru's, was spartan bare -- a twin-sized bed outfitted in navy blue, dresser, desk, and lamp -- while the other side was what Izuru would come to define as "Renji."

The bed was an unmade gash of black and white and red and, curiously, pink, in the form of a crumpled-up yukata. On one of the walls was a poster, not of the expected masturbatory fodder of a scantily clad woman in a pornographic pose, but rather, of all things, a baboon. The large scarlet heart of its ass wagged proudly in the air above a caption of "Kiss It."

Other, smaller pictures were taped up here and there, mostly images of popular manga heroes, save for one semi-anachronistic wall scroll depicting a battle scene in feudal Japan.

"You're free to personalize your side as much as you like, with the exception of paint," Aizen told him. "Allowances here are meager, but we do what we can to give everyone enough to let off some steam once in a while. Some of the older kids choose to work part-time for extra spending money. If that's ever what you want, just let either myself or one of your new teachers know, and we'll be glad to help you find something. The house works in conjunction with Seireitei Academy, where you'll be attending school, and from time to time some of the faculty will come and help out here, for mentoring or chaperoning, or just to seize control of the pool table or PlayStation for an evening. We're a pretty close-knit system.

"But I don't want to overwhelm you too much just yet -- we can discuss your enrollment and the specifics of your situation tomorrow, after you've settled in a bit. Most of the kids don't come home until around dinnertime, so you've got a couple of hours of quiet time to yourself. If you need anything, anything at all, I'll be in my office, or you can ask Renji or Momo. Any questions?"

Izuru shook his head.

Aizen smiled again, glasses flashing in the afternoon light that filtered yellow-gold through the windows. "All right, then.

"Welcome to Pure Souls, Kira-kun."

* * *

_ I remember Halloween  
Dead cats hanging from poles  
** Little dead** are out in droves  
I remember Halloween  
** Brown leafed vertigo**  
Where skeletal life is known. . ._ -- The Misfits, "Halloween"

* * *

**A/N:** _What to say. . .this is my bit of fluff on the side, a self-indulgent something-or-other I'll be playing with in between bouts of working on stuff that actually stands a chance of making me money (which, to segue into a disclaimer, is not happening here, because Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite-sama). There will be angst & yaoi, het, inappropriate age gaps, various kinds of abuse, foul language, and possibly psychosis; pretty much your average rainbow of modern adolescent turmoil. Poor Kira-kun. Poor everyone._


	2. Slim Pixie

**II. Slim Pixie**

* * *

Alone.

Izuru turned the concept over in his head as he stood blankly in the newly silent room.

Alone: to be isolated from others; lacking companions or companionship; without anyone or anything else.

He was alone. Exclusive.

_Your proficiency exam test scores are. . .dramatic. To be frank, I have to wonder what you've been doing in an ordinary school all these years, even in advanced placement classes. Being bored, I expect. In any case, Kira-kun, it is for this reason that we took the liberty of sending your academic records on to be reviewed by a potential candidate for your guardianship. His name is Aizen Sousuke, and he runs a foster home for disadvantaged children with exceptional minds. It's a very exclusive program; Aizen-sama takes in only the best and the brightest, and nurtures them in a progressive environment with close ties to one of the country's top secondary schools. . ._

Aizen Sousuke. Izuru had to admit that the man little resembled the mental image his reputation conjured. His social worker's words had painted a picture of a businessman who had never outgrown the need for a pocket protector, not the slightly-rumpled guidance counselor to whom he had just been introduced. Civil service seemed to be a profession of limited personalities. It was somewhat disappointing; Izuru's own father had been a fairly prominent and well-respected economist, and a small, unacknowledged part of the boy might have taken comfort in the familiarity of a precisely knotted silk tie, or the muted gloss of Italian leather loafers.

But Aizen's earthy, eager-to-reassure style only served to further illustrate how far Izuru had drifted from his previous moorings, and how broad the ocean had grown between his places of birth and berth.

He hadn't realized how quickly ninety kilometers per hour could take a person to eternity, or how easily an immeasurable distance of X in an equation could be infinitesimal. But, he bitterly supposed, mathematics had never been his best subject, giftedly intelligent or not, although to be honest, he didn't really believe he was. True, he had always been at the top of his class -- his parents would not have accepted anything less -- but perfect grades were attainable to anyone who spent enough hours absorbing the material. Schools were kinetic institutions: they rewarded effort over potential, and here. . .high standards meant steep competition, which meant pressure, which meant weight, and Izuru. . .Izuru was just so fucking _tired._

And angry. Incensed. Absolutely goddamn _wrathful_ that they would try to warp this, of all things, into another opportunity to better his education.

_. . .named you as the sole beneficiary of two separate trust funds, both incentive. The first will become accessible to you upon your acceptance into a top tier university, and the second, upon your graduation from that institution. . ._

Oh, he wanted to assure them, he was already learning plenty. The average atmospheric pressure on earth is one kilogram of force per square centimeter of matter; the average volume of an adult-sized human brain is 1500 cubic centimeters. One kilo of force multiplied by six sides multiplied by 1500 put the weight of his world at around 9000 kilos -- and that was before the doubling gravity of grief -- all precariously balanced on the thin stilt of his neck, and Izuru was terrified, _terrified,_ that that rickety support would someday _snap_ without warning and leave him, trapped and paralyzed, beneath the rubble. . .

His parents had always complained about his poor posture.

Motherfuckers. Mother_fuckers,_ how dare they? How could they do this to him? How could they rest peacefully while he was struggling to keep his eyes open, to put one clay foot in front another?

Izuru swallowed thickly, his skin prickling with the heat of the suddenly stifling room. He ached. Head, eyes, heart, limbs, everything. And this place. . .it was too much. He couldn't breathe. It -- he -- everything was just too _heavy._

He sank to his knees, body bowing forward. The waist of his jeans dug painfully into the sharp protrusions of his hipbones. His vision swam with dizziness. He hadn't eaten in days, fearful of adding even small ounces of food to his overtaxed system. His father would not have approved.

_A Kira man does not fail, Izuru; he does not lament his losses because he does not lose. You are my son, sole heir to my name and my honor, and I trust you to remember that fact in every endeavor upon which you embark._

Liar. Lost your life, didn't you?

_Do well, Izuru._ Could he be done yet?

_Shake it off, Izuru._ Did trembling count?

_Make me proud, Izuru. _And be the same. Be just like me.

Then so be it. If this what they wanted for him, what they had expected of him. . .

Kira Kagekiyo had, in the end, impressed nothing upon his only son if not the knowledge that men who do not exceed the speed limit may still plow through the guard rails.

"Hey -- oh. Sorry."

Izuru rolled his head in the direction of the interrupting voice to see Renji standing abashedly in the doorway, poised to retreat. He steeled himself with dwindling reserves, the process wearying but mechanical, and managed a shrug of his slender shoulders.

"Come in. It's your room."

"Yeah, but -- it's yours now, too, and I'd get it if you'd rather be alone."

Another shrug, easier this time as the strange, light air of a decision made but not yet acted out gradually blanketed his thoughts like snow, cooling, concealing.

"It's okay. I'm fine." Liar.

Renji hesitated, then -- "Cool," -- stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. "I just gotta feed Zabimaru."

"Zabimaru?"

"Aa." Renji dropped to his knees next to Izuru and dove headfirst underneath his bed. He rummaged. Something made a scraping sound against the floorboards, and a moment later the redhead's upper body reappeared, followed by a small plastic aquarium. It was lined with cedar shavings and contained an enormously fat brown rat surrounded by no less than half-a-dozen wriggling pink offspring.

Catching Izuru's startled look, Renji grinned. "What'sa matter?" he asked. "Don't like rats?"

"They're. . ." Izuru considered his words carefully, ". . .okay, I guess. They wouldn't be my first choice for a pet."

Renji nodded. "Mine neither, but. . .hey, their pellets are in the closet -- could you get 'em? Second shelf down, behind the manga."

"Uh. Sure." Izuru stood and swayed at the sudden rush of blood from his brain, feeling like a dilapidated tower growing impatient for its own demolition.

"Whoa," said Renji. "You okay?"

Izuru groped for something to steady himself, his hand fortunately finding the dresser. "Yeah, it's nothing. Just got up too fast." _Liar._

His vision refocused after a few seconds, and he forced the falter from his steps as he made his way to the closet, slid open the door with a quiet rumble of wheels on well-oiled tracks. Second shelf down, behind the manga. . .

"Son of a bitch!" Izuru yelped, staggering back to fall in an ungainly heap on the floor.

Renji roared with laughter, clutching his sides, tears forming in his eyes. "Oh _shit!_" he exclaimed. "Your face -- you should see your face!"

Izuru's gaze darted between the. . .the _thing_ in the closet and the redhead rolling next to him. "F-fuck you!" he stammered, the expletive fairly foreign to his tongue. "What the hell is that?"

Renji only started up again, his face growing red enough to rival his hair. It was a few minutes before he calmed down enough to speak.

"Shit," he said again, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Heh, sorry. You just looked so serious when I came in here, I was only tryin' to lighten the mood. _That_" -- He got up and went to the closet, unlocked and flipped open the topside door of the aquarium -- "is Zabimaru."

Izuru watched as Renji thrust a hand into the glass cage and held it there, patient and still, until the ribbon of mottled white and pale yellow at the bottom obediently coiled itself around his forearm.

"Don't worry," said the redhead, returning to sit on the floor with his back against his bed. "He's harmless. Pythons aren't poisonous, and he's too little to choke ya. But he will grow, yes he will, he will grow up to be big and strong and crush the bones of my enemies before swallowing them whole and throwing them back up in a big red goopy mess, yes he will," Renji cooed, nuzzling the snake's butterscotch head. Zabimaru's forked tongue emerged to flicker against his master's cheek.

Izuru shuddered. "I hate snakes."

Finally, Renji looked alarmed. "You. . .do?" he asked, as if disliking the creatures was a totally alien idea to his mind. "Crap. _Crap._ Listen, you won't tell Sousuke, will you? I had to fight tooth and nail to keep him when I got him, and I ain't even allowed to take him out of the room. Rangiku's _so_ convinced he'll try to eat her precious Ass Cat, as if he _could_ eat something that size yet. As if he'd _want_ to. Che."

"Rangiku?"

"You'll meet her. Both of 'em. But you won't say anything, will ya? I won't take him out while you're in here, I swear -- here, I'll put him back right now--"

"No!" Izuru cut in, grabbing hold of the other boy's pant leg when he started to rise. "I mean. . .no, I won't say anything to, to Aizen-san. And you can take him out when I'm here. I won't mind." Another lie, but Renji seemed so genuinely _scared_ of losing his beloved pet, and Izuru wondered how rare it was that foster children actually got to have things of their own, things to take care of and feel -- he cast a doubtful glance at Zabimaru's slitted scarlet eyes -- . . .affection towards?

And besides, it wasn't as if it was anything Izuru would have to endure for very long, anyway.

Renji's eyes widened with boyish hope. "Really?"

"Aa. I may not _like_ snakes, but I'm not really _afraid_ of them."

Renji sighed, relieved. "Awesome. I owe ya one, man. I mean it. And Zabimaru means it, too. . ." The conversation again degenerated into one-sided baby-speak as Renji cuddled the serpent to his chest, until the reptile noticed the plastic cage sitting nearby on the floor and began to take interest. Realization dawned for Izuru at a similar time, and he found himself suddenly unable to tear his eyes from the tiny rodents, naked and helpless and driven only by the blind desire to be as close as possible to their mother, to nourishment and warmth and security and _family_ and--

"They're its. . ._food,_ aren't they?" he said slowly.

"Delicious and nutritious," Renji confirmed, selecting one at random after he had replaced Zabimaru in his aquarium. The baby rat squirmed in his hand, confused, frightened.

Izuru looked away. "That's monstrous."

Renji tilted his head at the blond, his expression unreadable. "Hate to be the one to break it to ya, but. . .that's the world."

* * *

True to his word, Renji left after leaving the sacrificial snack to the mercy of Zabimaru's coils. The mother rat and her remaining brood had been returned to the dark safety of under his bed, where, Izuru learned, Renji also kept a male rodent in a separate cage, for when the python's food stores needed replenishing. The casual cruelty of the whole thing made Izuru feel distantly ill. But that, too, would soon be inconsequential.

He lay upon his bed and stared at the ceiling, not really listening to the music that filtered through the earbuds of his iPod (still around his neck from the plane flight and almost out of juice, but he hadn't time to recharge it before the scrabbling sounds in the closet had begun -- sounds he definitely didn't want to hear, inconsequential or otherwise).

What fatigue he had managed to peel away in order to interact with Renji had quickly adhered itself again to his mind once the other boy was gone, but now he found it to be a new, different kind of exhaustion, one that was almost. . .pleasant. Relaxing. His anxiety had ebbed. He had made his choice. _His_ choice. He had made a decision about the direction of his life, on his own, without any outside input or subtle steering or suggestions that were nonchalant in tone but never in meaning.

He was alone. By himself.

No mother to hold his hand (and she had had such warm hands--), no father yanking at the back of his hair to straighten his spine (_"Integrity, Izuru, in word and in deed."_). Integrity. Yes. Yes, he would follow through. He would hold fast to his convictions. He would stick to his guns.

Izuru stretched, feeling a few joints crack in the process, hearing, in the back of his mind, the answering groan of load-bearing metal worn thin, rusted from rain.

* * *

A muffled shout pulled him out of his mind, out of an unconsciousness to which he couldn't remember succumbing. For what felt like a long while, he didn't move. The battery in his iPod had finally called it quits, and only grave silence emanated from the closet. He was beginning to think the noise must have been a part of some anonymous dream when it happened again -- a bark of laughter coming from one of the lower levels of the house, followed by the loud chatter of multiple voices.

The room was dark, save for one source of blinking red, and Izuru's eyes swiveled to the digital alarm clock occupying one corner of Renji's desk. 7:04 flashed in large numerals. Dinner in the mess, he figured, and waffled for a minute on whether he should make an appearance or remain in hiding.

Curiosity eventually won out, alongside a peculiar need to be seen, as if it would somehow further validate his decision if it were etched in more minds that it had been precisely that -- _his._ That they would meet Kira Izuru and know him, however briefly, as being no other, nothing more and nothing less than himself. Whoever that was. It was not much of a memorial -- no more, in any case, than he believed he warranted -- but he had had enough, and it would be the same.

Izuru swung his legs over the side of the bed and willed his body to follow suit. He felt groggy and vaguely otherworldly rising in the dark, like an attic phantom about to stir up the night's first haunting unbeknownst to the happy gatherers downstairs.

Stopping by the boys' communal bathroom to make use of the facilities and rinse the sleepy taste out of his mouth, he scrutinized his reflection in the wide mirror that spanned the length of one wall. He _looked_ like an attic phantom, all translucent, faintly-veined skin, hair so pale as to be almost clear, half-moons the color of bruises hanging beneath dispirited blue eyes. How foreshadowing of him, he ironically mused. But there was nothing to be done for it, and so he dried his hands and followed the string of voices through labyrinthine halls, idly pondering as he wandered, if he was Theseus then who was the Minotaur?

He paused only momentarily as he approached the dining room. Second guesses were for second chances. He was determined to permit himself neither.

Aizen and six other young people crowded around one end of a long table that could easily have seated a dozen or more -- surely there were some absences? Children who were perhaps eating over at friends' houses, or scavenging from cram school vending machines? For a place this size, this couldn't be everybody. . .

The table's spread was traditional and wholesome. A large bowl of boiled rice served as the centerpiece, surrounded by smaller dishes stacked with sheeny baked fish or piled high with spinach and daikon. Izuru's mouth watered despite his churning stomach.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Just in time, too."

Conversation fell away and slunk warily under the table as six pairs of eyes pivoted to fixate on the source of their guardian's attention. At once, Izuru could feel himself being weighed and measured, his clothing, facial features and general bearing all being assessed and interpreted into myriad levels of significance. He should have felt exposed, bare and vulnerable as a baby rat before Zabimaru's jaws; and yet he had never felt more well-guarded, high atop his weakening watchtower, with the knowledge that its collapse would do him in long before the predators would that pawed inquisitively at its rungs.

"Have a seat." Aizen gestured at the empty spaces. "Momo-chan, do you think you could scrounge up a plate and a set of chopsticks for Kira-kun, please? Thank you."

"Oh, no, that's -- that's all right," Izuru protested, slumping into a chair next to a silver-haired girl with dark eyes and a kind face. "I'm not actually hungry."

Aizen only blinked from behind his glasses, and pink-cheeked Momo scurried into the kitchen.

"You've already met Momo and Renji," the bespectacled man continued, unperturbed. "Next to you are the Sisters Kotetsu, Isane and Kiyone--"

"Hi," the silver-haired girl nearest Izuru smiled shyly, while the younger, brassy blonde on her other side leaned back to assault him with a cheerful "Hello!"

"--Yamada Hanatarou--"

A small, dark, meek-looking boy sent him a docile but friendly wave.

"And _these,_" Renji seized control of the introductions with a lascivious smirk, "are Rangiku." Like a game show co-host displaying a prize package, with a broad sweep of his hand he drew Izuru's gaze to the chest of the girl beside him, where quite the largest pair of breasts the blond boy had ever seen threatened the seams of a much too low-cut, much too tight, and almost offensively vibrant magenta sweater.

"Renji!"

"Asshole!"

"OwowowokayI'm_sorry_owleggo--!"

"Serves you right, pervert. Ahem. Matsumoto Rangiku. And I'm up here, by the way."

Izuru blushed, dragging his eyes up to a startlingly pretty face framed by the sort of luxuriant, strawberry-blonde waves ordinarily reserved for shampoo commercials. She winked one ice-blue eye.

Momo returned and placed chopsticks and plate neatly in front of him. He thanked her, but -- "I'm still not hungry."

Aizen smiled indulgently. "Sorry, but that's one of our rules here," he explained. "If you're home at mealtimes and you're able to, you eat. If I'm going to be responsible for your welfare, you're going to get at _least_ one decent meal a day, even if I have to plug your nose and force it down you."

"It's true, he will," Isane murmured, her voice as lamb-gentle as the rest of her demeanor. "He made Rangiku-san sit on me to hold me down on Kiyone's and my first day here, when I didn't want breakfast."

"A memory I'm sure no one cherishes as much as I do," Renji sighed wistfully from across the table, and was promptly punched in the arm by that memory's top, top-heavy half. "Ow! Fuck, Ran, it was a compliment. . ."

"Renji, language. Rangiku, violence."

There were mutual mutters of grudging apology.

Izuru studied the deceptively simple food with rising trepidation. He looked at Aizen, who, for once, was not smiling.

_It doesn't matter,_ he told himself. _In a few hours, it won't matter at all. . ._

He reached for the rice.

* * *

Thankfully, Aizen was satisfied with the few small bites Izuru managed from each dish. The dense, thready daikon had been the worst, and the fish, nauseatingly slippery in his throat. . .

Izuru swallowed reflexively and pushed the thought as far away from the forefront of his mind as it would go. He had more pressing concerns with which to deal.

Renji's alarm clock threw 2:01 against the wall, while Renji himself snored quietly in his bed, the messily braided queue of his hair resting like Zabimaru's crimson sibling against his pillow. Other than that, the house was silent.

Izuru got up.

After eating, he had returned to his and Renji's room, pleading a need for more sleep. It wasn't, he reasoned, an entirely false excuse.

He had indeed spent the last few hours in bed, albeit awake. He'd realized that, although the conclusion had been decided, he had yet to settle on a method. Literature: his best subject, much to his genitors' disappointment.

Ends required means. Stories demanded structure. Implosions needed engineering. Izuru knew the construction of his mind was faulty, that somewhere along the line he had missed some key component that might have sufficiently reinforced his psyche to withstand the recent blows it had taken. A failsafe. A relief valve. Or perhaps the problem was intrinsic -- perhaps he'd simply been woven out of poorly tempered steel, or the soft base metal of his infant skull had never properly fused. Hairline fractures could widen into canyons. Ninety kilometers per hour.

That had been the notion to nail it down. He'd debated, at first, using a knife, but he possessed little interest in blades. Anything but a precisely calculated stab would have been too slow, his chances of being discovered prematurely too high, and he knew better than to count on his strength, or the steadiness of his hands. Similarly, drowning, while a more appealing prospect, held the possibility that he would be saved by his own instinctual panic -- there was no pool, no lake close by to provide an adequate depth to guarantee his body's surrender. Ditto poison -- enough of anything could kill a man, of course, but how much of what was enough? How quickly would drain cleaner take effect? How messy would roach killer be, or arsenic, or any one of a hundred household items stamped with skulls and crossbones? How painful would they be, and thus, how loud? Nor did he know how to knot a noose or have the first clue about procuring a gun, and he was too lacking in patience to hoard enough pills for an overdose.

No -- Izuru decided that if he was going to fall, then he was going to _fall._

It was the perfect ending. It was the only ending -- poetic, convenient. Achilles had had his heel and the camel its straw and the Titanic its substandard rivets, its too-short watertight compartments; so too would Izuru have the pin of his own undoing be pulled by the same fingers that had drawn up the blueprints. Izuru the orphan, who would slip through the cracks of his own grated floor. A fitting finish to bookend the concise serial of his life.

And so he got up, and crept to the window he had inspected in the time between absenting himself downstairs and the return of Renji some three hours later. It opened now just as it had then, smoothly, soundlessly. A slant of roof rested a couple of feet beneath the sill and, gingerly, Izuru eased himself outside and onto it. He glanced back only once, to make certain Renji still slept, before moving on. The next part would be more difficult. Izuru found himself almost glad he had been made to eat even the scant amount he had; otherwise, he considered dryly, he might not have had the energy.

Grasping the edge of the topmost level of roof was easy. Actually scrambling over it was markedly less so, but he swung sideways and brought off hooking a leg up, and, muscles screaming, gradually managed to haul himself over the edge.

For a while, he could only lie there, exhausted and out of breath. Grit from the roof tiles bit into the flesh of his palms and right cheek and snagged the fabric of his socks. The moon was a sickle-shaped smile in the sky, and he focused on it as a sign of approval.

Ninety kilometers per hour.

Terminal velocity.

He swallowed, and pushed himself up on shaky limbs. Another head rush set the world around him to spinning, sent the stars to mix with the burnished leaves of distant trees. He waited, kneeling, for it to pass.

The air felt a little cooler up here, the breezes a little stronger. It was well into autumn, but an unseasonable warmth had been lingering for weeks. Tonight, however, it seemed as though the winds were finally changing. Izuru closed his eyes and felt the currents curl around him like beckoning fingers.

Now or never, they said.

Now and never again.

He rose and took a step towards the edge.

"Wow. I don' think I wanna know _your_ story."

Startled, eyes snapping open, Izuru twisted around.

"Who's there?" he cast out into the dark, searching the umbrageous roof for the source of the drawl. "Wh-who are you, what are you talking about?"

"Ya know," said the voice, ignoring his questions, "Hinamori-chan's step-daddy put 'er head through a wall when she was five, 'cause she wet the bed."

Izuru frowned in confusion. "What?" Momo's bright cheeks and sunny smile flashed unbidden through his thoughts. He shook his head, shook them away.

"An' Rangiku," the voice went on, "she started gettin' those tits at ten, you believe that? Though _her_ daddy didn't find a use for 'em till she was twelve."

Izuru strained his gaze against the darkness.

_. . .there,_ in a corner where three different planes of roof intersected, a barely visible patch of paleness dispersed the deep shade (the words "attic phantom" nictated in Izuru's mind).

"Who _are_ you?" he asked again.

A reckoning beat passed before the figure shifted and stretched long as it stood, the action not unlike the languid rearing of a snake preparing to strike. A silver head that hadn't been present at dinner earlier bobbed slowly into view in the dim moonlight, all but disembodied by the shadows that continued to swathe its body from the neck down -- _was_ it a ghost?

Izuru shivered, then berated himself. There were no such things as ghosts. It was a boy, only a boy, with a smile so wide it pressed his eyes into sinister slits.

"Yamada-kun," he continued, "he didn't have a daddy. Didn't have a ma, neither. Had a heroine addiction when he was born, though, an' that's gotta count for somethin', right?"

He stepped fully into the light, revealing a tall, rail-thin frame clothed not in the half-expected white sheet, but in ripped gray jeans and a dark red v-neck shirt.

"Isane an' Kiyone found their mama in the garage, after they managed ta push the door past the towels. An' Abarai-kun, he got left on a doorstep, dumped like a dog didn't nobody want no more."

"Why are you telling me these things?"

The boy just kept smiling. "You're right, they ain't really my stories ta tell. But I know 'em. An' all those kids, they're still here. So I don' wanna know your story, if you had it so bad you don' wanna be. If you had it even worse than them."

Izuru stared at the strange boy. Unwelcome images of dinner that evening flipped through his mind -- small, sleepy-eyed Hanatarou, his frailty now explained, picking disinterestedly at his fish; Renji grabbing second helpings of everything with feast-or-famine greed; Rangiku mixing red bean paste into her rice and not taking no for an answer until a reluctant Isane gave it a try -- all between bouts of laughter and good-natured teasing, the atmosphere sprinkled with, if not happiness, then at least the insouciant optimism of knowing that things could be worse, much worse.

Izuru turned away to once again face the ground some twenty meters below. "I know what you're trying to do," he said.

"Do ya?" asked the boy. "What's that?"

"You're trying to shame me into. . .into not going through with this. You think that if you trivialize my circumstances I'll come to my senses and reconsider my decision. But it won't work."

"That so?"

"It is."

"Hmm. Kinda full o'yourself, ain'tcha?"

Izuru faltered, surprised by the response. He glared at the boy over his shoulder. "On the contrary. In fact, at the moment I don't think I could think less of myself."

The boy's smile lessened somewhat. "Really? Naa, guess I was wrong again. But then, so're you."

"Is that so? In what way?"

"Well, if ya can't think less o'yourself, then I can't very well be trivializin' an already trivial thing, now, can I? And tryin' ta shame you outta doin' this seems like an awful big waste o'time, seein' as you must already got shame a'plenty -- either that or none at all -- if you're about ta go an' do one of the most selfish an' stupid things ya could."

"That makes no sense."

"How would you know? You said you were outta your senses."

Frustrated and bemused, Izuru's hands balled into fists at his sides. This boy was. . .absurd. He was wasting his final moments in pointless argument with an idiot -- and what was worse, he was beginning to register the stirrings of a niggling worm of doubt. "Shut up!" he demanded. "Just shut up and leave me alone!"

The boy shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I was here first. _You_ were the one who was leavin', remember?"

_Damn it!_ He was right -- Izuru could end this, this conversation, this. . ._everything,_ right now. He should never even have acknowledged the boy's original interruption, if he was so intent on doing this.

_Suicide,_ he told himself. _Say it -- you haven't yet. Suicide. You came up here to kill yourself._

And he wouldn't back down. He refused. He'd been so _sure._ For a few hours, it had all been so fucking _clear. . ._

It was still there, that clarity, ghosting along the surface of his brain. If he could just get it back -- he'd been thrown for a loop, but if he could just finds his bearings, he could reach up and grasp it again. . .

". . .so what happened to you?" The question slipped out before he'd so much as gotten wind of its impending escape. Even the strange boy seemed not to have anticipated it.

"'scuse me?"

Oh well. It was out there now, and Izuru was still searching (and not, he was adamant, stalling for time). "You've told me everyone else's story," he repeated, "so what's yours?"

A quiet shifting of fabric whispered behind him -- a shrug. "Ain't got one."

Izuru snorted. "Right. Of course you don't."

Another shrug. "Maybe I do, but it's just as trivial as yours. Maybe I came up here for the same reason you did. Don't matter none, does it?"

Izuru fixated on a specific plot of particularly dark grass. "No," he faintly agreed, "it doesn't."

"Yeah. Nothin' matters anymore." The boy heaved a loud sigh -- and then, with renewed verve, hopped next to Izuru and lunged, cobra-quick, for the blond's hand, pulling him closer to the edge. "Well! Let's go, then!"

"What?" Izuru tried to wrench his hand free, but the boy's grip was vice-like; he was _much_ stronger than he looked. "What the hell are you doing?! Let go of me!"

"I told ya, I came up here for the same reason as you, so we may as well do it together. I dunno if the fall alone'll be enough ta do the job, though -- we'll hafta go headfirst ta make sure. . ."

"Wha-- stop it!" Izuru struggled as much as he dared, socks scraping against the roof tiles as the now manically grinning stranger jostled him towards oblivion.

"Who d'ya think'll find us in the mornin'? Sweet lil' Hinamori? Or Kiyone-chan -- she's had more practice at it."

"_Stop! _Are you crazy?! _Let me go!_"

"Crazy? Hmm, yep, maybe. I mean, ya kinda hafta be ta wanna die, right?"

"I don't! I--" Izuru's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. He froze.

Fuck.

Somewhere in the back of his head echoed the clap of a book slamming closed.

Now or never.

Never again.

_Fuck._

For the first time, the boy's smile faded completely into a small, puzzled frown. "Ya don't? Huh. Wrong _again._ I wonder why they ever let me in here. . ."

Without letting go of Izuru's hand, he backed away from the edge, tugging the blond with him. Izuru, too dazed and frightened to do anything else, let him.

"Naa, poor thing, you're shiverin'. 's cold out here, ne? C'mon, let's go inside. I'll make us some tea, an' you can tell me your story now. How's that sound?"

Still reeling from the sudden about-face of the situation, Izuru could only gape dumbly at his would-be benefactor, whose silver head tilted curiously.

"You're gonna hafta say more than that, o'course. Ichimaru Gin."

That last bit, in any case, was out of place enough to catch Izuru's attention. "What?"

"You asked who I was. Ichimaru Gin. That's my name."

"Gin," Izuru repeated. It was prosaically appropriate. "Weird name."

Gin just kept smiling. "Ya know, you're not the first person ta say that. . ."

* * *

_What do you want of me?_  
_What do you long from me?_  
_A __**slim pixie**__, thin and forlorn_  
_A count, white and drawn_  
_What do you make of me?_  
_What can you take from me?_  
_Pallid landscapes off my frown_  
_Let me rip you up and down. . ._ -- Bauhaus, "Crowds"

* * *

**A/N:** _Maa. My Kira-muse is an old-school goth. Wabisuke indeed. Thank you, reviewers, & thank you also, those who contributed hits. For TheAngelOfLucifer, "spelunking" is the verb for cave exploration; & to trishika, "earth-loving New Age geography teacher" rather hits the nail on its head for how I view contemporary!Aizen's public image. He's so Ned-Flanders-burying-Maud's-body-in-the-backyard-at-midnight._

_More hyphen abuse to come._


	3. Hermes the Unknown Peer of Midas

**III. Hermes the Unknown Peer of Midas**

* * *

Gin led Izuru back inside by way of a small, round ventilation window that led directly into the attic -- a much easier route to the roof, he said wryly, than the one the blond had taken.

Within, a short flight of stairs gave way to a wooden wall. Gin tugged a couple of the removable boards free to reveal an empty black space into which he momentarily disappeared before the unmistakable rattle of a door handle being turned reached Izuru's ears. A soft squeaking of hinges followed, accompanied by a flood of gray light that showed the space to be a linen closet, out of which Gin deftly stepped onto the thick rug of one of the third floor corridors. He held out a bony hand to help Izuru down, then replaced the boards of the closet's back wall, situated the towels contained therein back into their previously ordered stacks, and shut the door.

"Our lil' secret, ne?" he whispered, one cheek twitching up in what Izuru guessed was meant to convey a wink.

They made their way downstairs to the kitchen, where Gin did indeed make tea -- a gunpowder green he professed to be his favorite.

Now, the two teenagers sat cross-legged and facing one another atop the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, sipping the bitter, mild liquid between brief spells of silence. Izuru focused on his cup as a point of reference against the vertiginous surreality of the scene. What did this odd boy want him to say? Tell Gin his story. . .where to begin? More importantly, why did Gin care? What was he, an Aizen-in-training, all magnanimous sympathy and paternal niceties?

If he _was,_ Izuru reflected, he did not appear particularly suited to the task. The skin of the thing was there, but stretched too taut, like his smile, like an ill-fitting something he couldn't quite shed. And what was up with that smile, anyway? It seemed to falter only at the behest of its owner, otherwise responding in kind to both the humorous and the sobersided, like some sort of inverted stoicism. Izuru didn't know what to make of it. It was difficult to tell whether Gin was mocking him, or if the silver-haired boy was sincerely perpetually cheerful and unwittingly inappropriate. It might have made a difference if Izuru could only see his eyes. . .but as it stood, either option left him feeling foolish -- or perhaps that was merely the lingering effect of what had just transpired.

He'd chickened out. Push had come to shove and he had been knocked flat on his ass with barely any resistance.

Shame singed his cheeks. He didn't want to die. Why? He _had_ wanted to -- of that, he was certain. His actions had not contained the orchestrations of a cry for help. He had not intended to be interrupted. He would have jumped, had Gin not spoken up when he did. So what had it been about the fox-faced boy's words that had so quickly twisted his mind against the idea?

A selfish, stupid thing to do, Gin had called it. Was that the reason? Even in the absence of his parents, was the need for others' approval so deeply ingrained in Izuru's psyche that the off-the-cuff condemnation of a stranger could completely dismantle his convictions? Could he really be that malleable?

The notion repulsed him. It was the mindset of a coddled child. He hated it. If that was who he was. . .

He didn't want to die, but he wanted. . ._something,_ his mind strangled out, he wanted -- he just _wanted--_

_(__them to be alive, this to be a dream, time to choke and spit back up what it had taken away from him__)_

. . .Izuru shut his eyes to dam the flood of futile wishes that threatened to spill over into reality. Childish, he was still so childish. Spoiled, arrogant, ridiculous, and they had left him here like this, left him stuck in this place cramped between disarray and desperation and called it _life_ and everyone implied that he was lucky, _lucky_ to be left behind and ahead of the game and _succeed, Izuru_ and _go forward, Izuru_ and _make us proud, Izuru_ and how the hell was he supposed to do that now with them in the ground, fingers stiff as ever but no longer able to point him in the right direction?

God, he missed them. . .

"That sounds painful."

It was. It hurt, so much. He didn't want to die, but. . .

"Hey."

Cold, cadaverous fingers clamped onto the sides of his face, bringing Izuru back to himself with a violent jolt. He raised his head to meet Gin's incongruously happy expression.

"You were grindin' your teeth," the skinny boy explained.

As if on cue, a dull ache in the vicinity of Izuru's molars made itself apparent at Gin's words. He forcibly relaxed his jaw, a little surprised at his own body. Fidgeting had never been condoned in the Kira household, and he wasn't usually prone to such nervous habits.

Nor was he accustomed to being touched quite so intimately by someone who could be termed an acquaintance at best. Gin made no move to take his hands from Izuru's face until the blond took it upon himself to lean back out of the smiling boy's reach, and even then let them linger in the air for a second before lowering them to rest in his lap. He was so. . .queer, this boy, so benignly antagonistic, if one could be such a thing without being in some way mentally impaired -- a possibility Izuru hadn't entirely ruled out.

"So," Gin said, "how 'bout that story?"

"I thought you didn't want to know it?"

Gin shrugged. "Changed my mind when you changed yours."

"I. . ." Izuru let the sentence drop, not knowing how to end it. He fought the desire to press his hands to his cheeks, to warm them where the ghost of Gin's cool touch still tarried. "My parents, they. . .d-died," he began, the viscous last word gumming up his mouth like bitter mochi, "in a car crash two weeks ago. I didn't see their mangled bodies or anything, sorry -- I was at school at the time. I realize it's not tragic enough to win whatever little competition you guys seem to have going on here, but it's all I've got."

The other boy's eyebrows lifted, with the curious effect of not actually serving to widen his eyes. "Competition?"

"Whose life has been the biggest sob story so far."

Gin laughed and shook his head incredulously. "Silly rabbit. Who'd wanna compete for _that?_"

Izuru felt his jaw clench again.

"Why are you. . .is everything just a joke to you?" he demanded.

"'course not," Gin replied with amiable nonchalance as he dug for something in the pockets of his jeans. After a moment, he produced a familiar-looking square of black leather and began to rifle through its contents. "If it was, we'd both be dead now, Kira Izuru, born March 27th, 199--"

Recognition sunk in. "Hey! That's my wallet!"

Izuru made a grab for the stolen property -- the other boy must have lifted it from his back pocket while they had been struggling on the roof. Gin evaded him easily and held the wallet aloft as he continued to read aloud from Izuru's ID, "Hair, blond; eyes, blue--"

"Give it back!" Izuru lunged at Gin, toppling the taller boy onto his back. They grappled, Izuru straining to stretch past Gin's longer reach while Gin pushed against Izuru's throat with his free hand to keep him at bay.

"Height, 173 centimeters; weight, 56 kilos -- huh, ya don't feel that heav--" Gin's comment was cut short as one of Izuru's fists slammed into his ribs, abruptly robbing his lungs of air and stunning him enough that his hold on both boy and billfold loosened.

Izuru snatched his wallet out of Gin's grip and clambered off the counter. He landed awkwardly against a row of cabinets, one of the knobs jabbing hard into the back of his right shoulder. The throbbing pain of it staunched the realization of what he had just done, but not for long, and when he came again to his senses he was horrified.

He had never hit another person before, ever. He hadn't even noticed his fingers balling up to hit Gin. There had only been the halfway suffocating pressure of Gin's hand on his throat and the red blindness of outrage at feeling completely duped and then. . .what the hell was wrong with him?

Gin lay motionless on the counter, curled up on his uninjured side, one hand knotted around his t-shirt where Izuru had struck him. Tea from their cups, upended in the commotion, dripped steadily onto the tiled floor.

". . .okay," the silver-haired boy muttered after a composing minute, still slightly winded, "_ow._ You can pack a punch, kid, I'll give ya that. . ."

"I'm sorry," Izuru said automatically, then remembered why he had been driven to throw the punch in the first place. "You stole my wallet!"

"Only a little," Gin sulked, carefully maneuvering himself upright. "I wouldn'a kept it."

"But -- _why?_"

"'cause you're low on cash an' your library's kinda far away ta make rackin' up fines on your card worth the trouble?"

Izuru frowned at the deliberately obtuse response. "I meant, why did you take it in the first place?"

"Oh. I dunno." Gin shrugged again. "Old habits, I guess. Seemed the thing ta do at the time."

". . ."

"Naa, whatcha lookin' at me like that for? I get tea someplace funny on my pants?" He made a show of checking his jeans for embarrassingly-placed stains.

". . .are you--" Serious? Insane? A moron? Izuru settled, "--okay?"

The gleeful smile again spread across Gin's features with well-practiced ease. "I'll live." As if to prove it, he jumped down from the counter to land in a crouched position near to where Izuru sat on the tiles, then added in a whisper, "An' so will you."

He ruffled the blond's hair lightly as he rose, then headed for the door, calling over his shoulder as he left, "Sweet dreams, Kira Izuru, born March 27th, blond hair, blue eyes, 1.73 meters tall. . ."

The statistics faded into the darkness of the house, leaving a dumbfounded Izuru to clean up the tea and wonder how many more times he would end up feeling as though the rug had been pulled out from under him, if one could ever get used to the feeling, and how long it would take for that to happen.

* * *

The ceiling fan spun, whipping the three rows of glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to its blades into a blurry target of alien green light. Stretched out on his bed beneath it, head resting on folded arms, Gin tried to distinguish a single star in the circles. Whenever he caught one -- usually plucked from the outer ring -- he followed it with his gaze for as many rotations as he could manage. He could never seem to hang onto it for more than a handful of turns, but that was all right -- it was only a game he played to trick himself to sleep on restless nights, something to tire his eyes into genuinely closing.

Tonight, however, the task was merely a physical distraction. His mind was occupied elsewhere, with waiting, and his latest discovery.

He'd been bored, he decided, simply bored to _death_ when the younger boy had scrabbled onto the rooftop, his entrance like that of some inept angel who'd gotten flipped upside-down in his descent from the clouds. Gin had been annoyed at first, his evening plans not having included a witness, but his irritation quickly shifted to intrigue when Izuru stood and indirectly made known his own intentions, for neither had Gin any desire, at that moment, to play spectator to the self-annihilation of another. It was a rare feeling for him, and he'd found it. . .rejuvenating, like hearing a new song from a favorite band filter through the airwaves just as one was about to change the station.

That the blond was rather adorable hadn't hurt, either, and he reacted to Gin's natural state of being a bit too much, going that extra step too far, trying too hard solely for the sake of trying the patience of others, in the most endearing ways. He spooked so easily. The boy wasn't innocent, per se -- a condition Pure Souls tended to quickly cure, in any case -- no; what Kira Izuru was, more than anything else, was _unassuming._ He possessed perhaps a little less than his share of the sheltered egoism distributed to the moderately wealthy at birth, and it worked in tandem with an authentically kind heart just enough to keep his questions -- and his interpretations of their answers -- missing the mark by a hairsbreadth. He had absolutely no idea what to do with himself without being told, like a live wire at rest, or a loose cannon waiting for the ship to roll. It made, Gin thought while rubbing absently at sore ribs, for a very interesting set-up. A theory worth probing.

Lost in his own ruminations, he almost missed the quiet, retracting click of a door latch that sounded from across the room. The absence of his roommate was always an auspicious occasion, if for no other reason than it ensured Gin's ears a break from the snoring that could rival the inarticulations of a dyspeptic bear, but tonight it was doubly so. Gin had been waiting -- he was loathe to admit _hoping_ -- and tonight, for the first time in longer than he cared to own up to, he was not disappointed.

He did not attempt to feign sleep, knowing the act would be seen clear through, but neither did he give any outward indication that he knew he was no longer alone. He only waited, pulse quickening with each muted pad of slippered feet on hardwood floorboards that drew closer, closer. . .

His eyes fluttered fully shut as a hand -- large, warm, soft -- brushed the hair away from his brow. He inhaled deeply the air that dragged in its wake, scented that singular, comforting musk of sandalwood and cloves he had missed as of late to the point of despair.

"Gin." His name in that voice, low and discorporate in the dark, like that of God's, consonants clinging like curves around the breathy vowel in the middle. His name in the shape of a gasp.

"Aa?"

"You made a new friend tonight?"

Gin smiled. "Maybe. Hope so."

The hand continued to weave through his hair, neatly trimmed nails gently raking his scalp. His toes curled.

"That boy," he murmured, drowsy, blissful. "That boy. . ."

"Izuru?" the voice prompted.

"Izuru. I stole his wallet."

"Did you? That wasn't very nice."

"He hit me," Gin complained with childish petulance. "In the side. In'a ribs."

A second hand came to rest over Gin's own that clutched the tender spot. "You deserved it, you know."

"Yeah. I know. That boy," he said again, "he's 'bout ready ta explode."

"Oh? And I suppose you intend on being catalytic to that event?"

"Might."

"Experimenting with playing God now, are we?"

"No-o," Gin giggled at the idea. "That's your job. I'm jus' the messenger."

"You'd make a terrible savior, Gin."

"Mmhmm."

The hands fell away from his forehead and side, only to be replaced by a mouth, impossibly warmer, impossibly softer. It pressed twin kisses, chaste but firm -- anointing -- upon the crown of his head, between the bones of his ribs. . .and then it was gone.

Bewildered, Gin opened his eyes. His smile collapsed.

". . .Sousuke?" he ventured, but received only silence in reply. His room was empty. The door was closed. _Do not follow,_ it meant. It meant, _It was only a dream,_ and_ Go back to sleep,_ and _Shhh._

Wasn't, Gin knew. Wasn't a dream.

Just wishful thinking.

_Yeah, well, you wish in one hand an' shit in the other, boy, an' you lemme know which one fills up first._

_Shhh. . .  
_

Gin rolled from one end of his bed to the other, spinning a blanket cocoon. He watched the starlit fan, dispelling one form of hypnosis with another. When he slept he dreamt of canon fodder and powder kegs and sparks.

* * *

_One man lights you with his ardor,  
Another puts you in mourning, Nature!_  
_That which says to one: sepulcher!_  
_Says to another: life! glory!  
_  
_You have always frightened me,_  
_**Hermes the unknown**__, you who help me._  
_You make me the __**peer of Midas**__,_  
_The saddest of all alchemists;  
_  
_Through you I change gold to iron_  
_And make of paradise a hell;_  
_In the winding sheet of the clouds  
_  
_I discover a beloved corpse,_  
_And on the celestial shores_  
_I build massive sarcophagi._ -- Charles Baudelaire, "The Alchemy of Grief" (translated by William Aggeler)

* * *

**A/N:** _Poetry this time, for a little variety in the pretension, & because quoting Depeche Mode's entire Violator album would have been overkill. This is just enough kill (thank you, Spike). Quoted twofold for extra esoteric obscurity, nom._

_Okeydokey. Bit of a shorter chapter this time, done in the interest of updating with relative promptness & to give the next one a clean tonal slate. In case anyone's curious, yes, I probably will end up tweaking the pairings in the summary every time I post, because whenever I sit down to outline what I want to do, this fucker GROWS. I've laid out the groundwork for three previously unintended subplots/sidekick interludes already. This is what I get for gun-jumping & trying to incorporate every character -- everyone's being reordered and shifted around. Not to worry, though -- the ByaxRen, more in-depth AizenxGin, & a slew of others will all turn up eventually. Patience is virtuous love._

_Once again, thank you to everyone who's been reading, and especially to those who've left reviews. The encouragement is much appreciated._


	4. In the Reptile House

**IV. In the Reptile House  
**

* * *

Izuru watched the extended paw of the Maneki Neko clock on the desk in Aizen's office as it batted the air in time to the ticking of the timepiece's seconds hand. The tacky contraption had the out-of-place air of an unwanted gift periodically taken out of storage to be shown off only when its giver came to visit.

The remaining decor was neutral and clean, temperately cheerful in shades of brown and deep yellow. On a side table, a vase of lilies-of-the-valley dwarfed a old-fashioned glass cola bottle holding a bouquet of wilted marigolds that looked hand-picked. Bookshelves lined the walls, giving the initial impression that the room was a smaller second library. Aizen himself was seated in front of one of these, opposite Izuru, behind a large maple desk. The blond's school transcripts and a laptop both lay open in front of him, and beyond them, a bowl of apples and a crumb-dusted plate -- the remnants of the natto toast Izuru had been obliged to eat for breakfast before Aizen would allow the meeting to commence.

"Are you sure you don't want another day or two to yourself before you enroll?" the bespectacled man asked, fingers flying pianist-quick across the keyboard as he accessed the registration database of Seireitei Academy.

"I'm sure," Izuru replied. He started to bring his knees to his chest, then glanced around again at the pristine office and thought better of putting his feet on the furniture. "I just want. . ."

"To get back into a routine, reclaim a semblance of normalcy?" Aizen supplied.

"Aa. Something like that." In truth, Izuru wasn't entirely certain what had triggered his sudden eagerness to do as Aizen suggested, although he remained inwardly adamant that it had nothing, _nothing_ to do with Ichimaru Gin. He'd lain awake early that morning convincing himself of this, after he'd returned to his and Renji's room (after he'd shut the window, shivering). The mercurial boy was a presumptuous thief who had done nothing but add to his confusion. It was an unwanted gift, an unwanted weight, and it begged an unwanted question: if Izuru was no longer content to die, then how much, exactly, could he bear?

You'll live, Gin had told him; and while Izuru had hardly woken with a renewed zest for life (not that anyone waking to a bruised shoulder and Renji's alarm clock, set to blare the local rap-rock station at 7:31 a.m., could be imbued with such), he had, at the very least, a grudging will to further endure it. His possibilities were not limitless -- he had merely been at fault (again) in judging his own boundaries.

Even to himself, Izuru had never been terribly persuasive.

"All right," said Aizen, threading his fingers together and cracking his knuckles in preparation. "To begin with, Seireitei works somewhat differently than most schools. It's divided into lower and upper levels, for the most part differentiated by age, but the classes themselves are structured more around credits than years -- for instance, a student who excels in math and science but is, according to their age and the credits they've amassed, year eight, may still take year eleven Calculus or Physics alongside year eight-level Japanese. The more difficult the course, the higher number of credits it's worth, and so upon completing, say, Calculus, if that student's credit standing jumps to one of year ten- or eleven-level, they may be afforded the opportunity to graduate early, providing they meet the national standard for comprehension of their more basic courses. Do you follow?"

Izuru nodded. "Yes, sir."

A knowing smile touched Aizen's lips. "Of course you do. Now, in accordance with your proficiency exam scores, I'm going to place you in year twelve-level Japanese Literature and Composition, does that sound okay?"

Another nod.

"Good. And you were beginning advanced English this year, excellent. . .your mathematics comprehension is above average, but not quite high enough to warrant your jumping any farther ahead than you already are. . ."

The meeting continued thus, with Aizen suggesting course levels and Izuru responding with whether or not he believed them to be within his mental league. Chemistry, trigonometry, and Japanese history were added to the list, along with the civics class his roommate so lamented. To Izuru's mild surprise, the schedule placed him a full year beyond his previous studies, at a year eleven standing.

"Have you given any thought to extracurricular activities?" Aizen queried. "It says here you were a member of the poetry club at your last school -- we have one here as well. I could sign you up for it, if you'd like?"

Izuru shook his head. "No thank you. I. . .I haven't felt much like writing lately."

"That's fine. Membership is open year-round, so you can join anytime, if you change your mind. There's also a gardening club, the science club, the yearbook and school newspaper are both popular. . .I'll just print you out a list, and you can decide in your own time if there's anything you'd like to join. As for sports, try-outs have already taken place, but it's early enough in the season that I could arrange for an exception to be made. There's tennis, soccer, track and field -- the usual fare. This year's kendo team looks especially promising. Three of our own boys are on it, Renji among them. Or" -- he consulted Izuru's transcripts -- "you were the starting pitcher of your middle school's baseball team. District champions, eh? You must have been quite good."

"I was better at studying."

"Ah. They do call it the Thinking Man's Game."

Izuru shrugged. "Guess I had bit too much on my mind."

Aizen smiled faintly, and pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. "No extras just yet, then," he conceded, then tapped a brief sequence of keys. A printer on the other side of the desk whirred to life and began its work, consuming and spitting out a few sheets of paper. When it had finished, Aizen closed the laptop with a final-sounding click, and handed the papers to Izuru. "There you go, your schedule for the next six or so months. I'll phone the school and have them send Renji home with a uniform, and you can pick up another one or two yourself tomorrow from the registration office."

"Arigatou gozaimasu, Aizen-san," Izuru thanked him, rising from his seat and bowing stiffly.

"Sousuke, please. It makes me feel like an old man when someone your age addresses me so formally."

Izuru nodded, and made to leave. He was at the threshold when Aizen's voice called out again, "And -- Kira-kun?"

The blond turned around, pale eyebrows inquisitively quirked.

"Don't feel that you have to measure up to a certain standard of genius to succeed here. That you're here at all is proof enough that you're intelligent, and Seireitei itself, while accommodative to gifted children, doesn't revolve wholly around test scores or grade point averages -- although you will be expected to keep yours up. Not all the students that attend the school are there owing to academic merit. To put it bluntly, this area of Rukongai is no stranger to money, and money loves being treated on individualistic terms. We ask only that you work to the best of your capabilities. The only competition here is between yourself and your own potential; that is where we -- _I_ -- put my faith in my wards. Before anyone else, make yourself proud, Kira-kun. The rest will follow if you lead by example."

Izuru waited a beat to be sure that Aizen had finished his speech. ". . .arigatou, Ai-- Sousuke-san. I. . .I'll try."

Aizen dismissed him with a pleased nod, and Izuru collected his plate, departed the office and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, he rinsed the dish and, after a few seconds' deduction, added it to the partially full dishwasher before focusing his attention on the refrigerator. The combination of the salty, fermented soybeans and dry toast had left him unbelievably thirsty.

He browsed. The fridge, at first glance, resembled a filing cabinet in which the files were all two inches deep and made out of plastic. Tupperware and bento boxes, each bearing its own masking tape label and a name, filled the shelves from end to end, from the bottom shelf to the one second from the top, which held all manner of cartons and bottles in a variety of flavors that could belong to no singular set of taste buds. Izuru safely selected a gallon-sized jug of orange juice labeled 'EVERYONE' and discovered the contents of three cupboards before he located the one reserved for cups.

He thumbed idly through his schedule and the list of available extracurriculars as he drank, grimacing slightly whenever some small motion of his arm set his shoulder to smarting. He hoped Gin's ribs were bothering him equally as much.

"Seriously, they are a bunch of idiots. It's not surprising that there are people who support Kira. . ."

Izuru's ears perked up at the unfamiliar voice coming from the front of the house. Someone was talking about him? And not very flatteringly, by the sound of it. Frowning, he set aside his glass and, quietly, pursued the source.

". . .his followers believe, deep inside their hearts, that Kira will bring evil to justice. The people that are here right now are different. They're really worthless humans. As long as they are enjoying themselves, nothing else matters, they are--" _Click._ "--ALWAYS WITH YOU! BOHAHAHAHAHA!"

The T.V. room. Of course. Whoever was in there must have been watching a program in which one of the characters shared his family name.

Dusting off feelings of folly, Izuru padded the rest of the way down the hall. He stopped in the doorway to the room and leaned, unnoticed, against the jamb.

On the wraparound sofa in front of the television, situated cosily within a small mountain of pillows and blankets, was a boy -- girl? No, boy -- of middle school age who apparently held unconventional views about which way round a ponytail was supposed to be tied on one's head. He was still in his pyjamas -- a juvenile print of rocket ships and one-eyed aliens -- and a bottle of indigestion remedy, open and complete with twisty straw protruding from its mouth, sat on the end table nearest Izuru.

_Click._ "--Fong-san negotiates the Spider Walk with the graceful dexterity of a monkey. He is the third brother in his family to compete in Sasuke, and rumor has it his younger sister is in training--" _Click._

Silence rang as the screen snapped to black. The boy sighed heavily and slumped deeper into his makeshift nest, and Izuru used the window of boredom to announce his presence.

"Hey."

Startled, the boy bolted upright, a yelp of "Nothing!" reflexively escaping his lips. When it registered that Izuru was not whatever dreaded authority figure he'd been expecting, he visibly relaxed and breathed another sigh, this one of relief. "Oh, hello."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't think anyone else was home, either."

"No," the boy said, "I knew you were here. Hana told me there was a new kid."

"Hana? You mean Yamada-kun?"

"Right," he smiled. "He's one of my roommates. My name's Rin, by the way. Tsubokura Rin. We didn't meet last night 'cause I was at a Technology Club meeting." He grimaced, clutching his stomach. "Which is also why I'm home today. Too many cupcakes. But I couldn't help myself! They were so spongy and sweet, and the icing was all piled high to glittery perfection. . ." His eyes glazed over in what should have been an incompatible combination of yearning and nausea. He recovered after a moment or two, burped once and took a sip from the medicine bottle beside him.

"Wanna sit down?" he offered, gesturing to the shorter half of the L-shaped sofa. "I promise not to barf all over you."

Izuru felt the barest hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Sure," he said, and sat, drawing his legs up to tuck his knees under his chin.

"Is that your schedule?" Rin asked. "Can I see it?"

Izuru handed over the topmost sheet of paper and waited quietly as it was perused and assessed by the younger boy.

"Oh. You have Kurotsuchi-sensei." There was an odd, apprehensive tone to his voice.

"Is that. . .bad?" Izuru queried.

Rin hesitated. "It's. . .he's. . .well, you get used to him. Just don't ever -- _ever,_" he stressed, "say 'I don't know' if he asks you a question. Even if you honestly don't know the answer, make one up."

"I'll remember that, thanks."

Rin nodded, still reading. "He's a really good teacher, though, once you get the hang of his quirks. Really brilliant. Not as brilliant as Urahara-sensei, but under pain of. . .well, pain, and lots of it, never ever _ever_ let him hear you say that, either. But you won't have Urahara-sensei till next year, unless you join the Technology Club. Do you like technology, Kira-san?"

Izuru shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Pens, instant ramen, indoor plumbing. . ."

Rin stared at him for a moment, then broke into a wide grin and laughed, softly at first, then louder, with growing mania, like a mad scientist's cackle that had yet to fully mature. His ponytail bobbed in time with the shaking of his shoulders. Izuru shifted minutely away.

"You're funny," Rin appraised. Izuru witheld the thought that the boy would be one of the first to say so. "Kyouraku-sensei's really nice, really easygoing," Rin went on, returning the schedule to its owner. "He teaches class outside sometimes, in the spring, when the weather's good. Tousen-sensei's real strict, though. I don't know too much about any of the others -- they don't come around very often, and I'm only in year eight in everything but science, so. . ."

"That's all right. Thanks for the tips." Izuru folded up the paper along with the others and stuck them in his back pocket, next to his wallet. It reminded him-- "Ano. . .I met someone last night -- Ichimaru Gin?"

The smile faded from Rin's face as abruptly as one tended to pop up on Gin's. The greenish tinge from before crept back into his face.

"Wh-what--" The boy cleared his throat and took another sip from the medicine bottle. "What about him?"

"That's kind of what I wanted to ask you," Izuru explained. "He just seemed a little. . ."

"Scary beyond all reason?"

Izuru blinked at that. "Not _scary,_ just sort of. . .offbeat."

"Offbeat," Rin repeated, sounding not unlike he had when describing Kurotsuchi. "Good word. Tactful. Gin-san is. . .well, I don't really know what he is. I don't think anyone does, 'cept Sousuke-san, or maybe Rangiku-san. He's been here the longest, since he was ten or eleven or something. He's supposed to be really smart -- I mean, like, _really smart_ -- but I overheard Ukitake-sensei and Sousuke-san talking once, and Ukitake-sensei -- he teaches A.P. Biology, by the way -- he said Gin-san doesn't live up to his full potential on purpose 'cause he doesn't wanna leave Pure Souls. He'll have to leave next year, though. Eighteen and out, that's the rule."

"I see," Izuru murmured. "Why would you call him scary?"

Rin fidgeted with a fold of blanket. He shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, he likes to play pranks sometimes, or he'll needle you if he's in a bad mood, but he's not outright _cruel_ or anything. Not that I've seen, anyway. And if he catches an upperclassman picking on one of us shoats -- that's what they call the younger students here, shoats -- he'll stop them, and make sure they won't do it again. But it's like. . .it's like he doesn't do it for our sake so much as it gives him an excuse to. . .meh. I'm not explaining it right. I'm hopeless with words. Probably because food usually gets in the way of them." He smiled sheepishly, lifting up the bottle as if in a toast.

"It's okay. I think I understand your meaning." Izuru did. It made sense, if Gin truly was as clever as Rin proposed, and if he was consciously reining in that cleverness, for many of the silver-haired boy's motivations to be rooted in dissatisfied ennui. It would certainly account for the peculiarity of his actions the previous night, if he sought an outlet for his frustrations in the manipulation of those around him. _Is everything just a joke to you?_

But then--

_'course not._

. . .something inside Izuru tugged him away from too quickly pigeonholing the older boy. He tried to name what it was, but it was like swiping at smoke, too hazy to read through, too thin to catch -- rather, Izuru thought, like Gin himself.

It was not gratitude -- his life had not been _saved_ so much as it had been. . ._upheld,_ or conversely, his death _held up_ -- nor was it pride. Rancor, perhaps, at having possibly played the unwitting victim in Gin's mindgames. Once bitten, twice shy; but how to analyze the wound when he may have missed the the nature of the beast that had struck him? Was it Gin he doubted, or himself? And why should he doubt Gin's alleged intellect, if he had no delusions of grandeur concerning his own?

"Hanatarou thinks I read too much into things," Rin continued, his voice overlaying Izuru's thoughts, interlocking with them. "But Hana's kind of stubborn that way. He tries to see everyone in a good light."

"You don't think that's an admirable quality?" asked Izuru.

"Not when it blinds you to the bad things."

"Like Gin-san?"

Rin shrugged again. "Maybe Hana's right. Maybe I look for things that aren't really there. Gin-san's really close to Sousuke-san, after all, and Sousuke-san, he's. . .he's _good,_ he wouldn't. . _._and Rangiku-san's always friendly, and she's Gin-san's best friend, so. . .so I dunno. He just makes some people nervous, and I'm one of them, I guess." Hazel eyes searched blue. "Are you?"

Izuru studied the ponytailed boy's face as he spoke, recognizing in his eyes that same glow of hero-worship present in Momo's at the virtues of Aizen Sousuke. Distantly he wondered if someday, he, too, would fall prey to that faith; if someday, that was the great leap he was destined to take.

"I haven't decided yet."

* * *

"--and in December, there's the Winter Fireworks Festival over in Karakura Town. It's so much fun! There's dango and okonomiyaki and chocolate-covered bananas and kakigouri and--"

"Oi, Tsubokura, lay off a minute an' let him eat the food that's actually _here,_" Renji ordered around a mouthful of roasted sweet potatoes. "And damn it, Iba, don't hog all the meatballs!"

The boy seated across from him swallowed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the upper part of which sported a stripling imitation of a narrow, Yakuza-style mustache. "I'm not!" he protested. "Thirty-six meatballs divided by twelve people equals three meatballs per person!"

"You took five!"

"That's because not everyone's here!"

"That doesn't matter! You can't just decide by yourself who gets the extras!"

"Yeah!" the younger boy sitting next -- one might say as close as possible -- to Renji enthusiastically interjected.

Iba scowled at him. "Shut up, twerp!"

"Oi!" shouted Renji. "Don't talk to him like that!"

"You shut up, too! You're only defending him because he kisses your ass!"

"No he doesn't!"

"No I don't!"

"_Children. . ._" Aizen somehow managed to imbue a long-suffering sigh with warning. The three quieted instantly, and Izuru was surprised when the heat of their downcast glares failed to overcook their food. "Tetsuzaemon, put the meatballs back. If Gin hasn't come home by the end of dinner, you may each take _one._"

There was a sullen chorus of "Yes sir" from the reprimanded three, and the table lapsed into semi-awkward post-fight silence. It was fuller than it had been on Izuru's first night with the addition of Rin (who had bounced back from his gastrointestinal malady with remarkable speed after learning that coffee jelly was on the night's menu for dessert); Rin and Hanatarou's other roommate, the overzealous Rikichi; and the boy with the unfortunate facial hair, who'd been introduced as twelfth-year Iba Tetsuzaemon.

". . .I call his sweet potatoes."

Renji started up again. "Rangiku!"

"What? Even if he was here, he wouldn't eat them."

The redhead narrowed his gaze at the buxom girl. "Is that why you made them?"

"Made what?" Gin's lazy drawl preceded his entrance. Iba, Renji and Rikichi all looked deflated as he slouched into the room and slid easily into the empty chair next to Rangiku, diagonally across from Izuru.

"Roasted sweet potatoes!" she said brightly.

Gin pulled a face. "Aww, Ran-chan, I'll die faster if ya just put the knife in my back 'stead of tryin' ta starve me."

"Yeah, well, we'll take whatever we can get," Renji muttered under his breath, causing Iba to choke and snort Kidsbeer through his nose.

"Gah! The bubbles!" he hissed. "They burn!"

Renji rolled his eyes. "Baka."

"_Shut--_"

"_Any_way," Rangiku interrupted before their argument could begin anew. She turned silver-blue eyes on Gin and batted her lashes sweetly. "I can have yours, yes?"

"Maa, how can I say no with you lookin' so cute?"

Rangiku clapped happily and peppered her foxlike friend's cheek with kisses. "Arigatou, Gin-chan!"

"Che," Renji grouched. "I hope they keep you up all night farting."

He ate the string bean she threw at his head with self-satisfied relish. Beside him, Isane loosed a sigh.

"I don't suppose anyone has anything to say that's _not_ about bodily functions, the things that cause them, or the body parts that perform them?" she asked hopefully.

"Thank you, Isane, that's a splendid idea," Aizen agreed. "It so happens that Kira-kun here will be starting at Seireitei tomorrow. Would anyone care to show him around and make sure he finds all his classes okay?"

"I'll do it," Gin volunteered, almost too readily. Izuru looked at him, instantly suspicious, but all he got in response was that unwavering, innocuous smile.

"What?" Renji snapped, glancing between them with sudden antsiness. "Don't worry about it, Ichimaru, I'll take care of it. He's my roommate."

"Then don't be so greedy, Abarai-kun," Gin reasoned. "Other folks might want a chance ta get ta know 'im, too."

"Gin's right, Renji," Aizen concurred, folding his napkin and draping it neatly atop his empty plate. "We should all be endeavoring to help one another solve our problems, however large or small, be they pointing out a hard-to-find classroom or overcoming prejudices, our own or those of others."

"But--" Renji, still anxious but shame-faced, let the protest die on his tongue. That quelled, Aizen focused his gaze on Izuru, glasses glinting.

"Unless Kira-kun has any objections to the arrangement. . .?"

Gin's grin widened to bare teeth. A challenge? A test? Izuru swallowed, dry-mouthed. Despite his claims to the contrary, he knew the silver-haired boy had a game. He also knew that if he didn't want to be a toy, then he would have to be a player.

"No," he answered. "I don't mind."

"Excellent." Aizen sat back in his seat, smiling delightedly at the both of them. "It's settled, then. Now, who's ready for dessert?"

* * *

"Sorry about that," Renji later apologized, after they had returned to their shared room. He sat on his bed with his back to the wall, allowing Zabimaru to weave between his fingers while Izuru at last got around to unpacking. "Sousuke can be kind of an underhanded dick sometimes."

"It's fine," Izuru assured him, hanging the new uniform Renji had indeed brought home up in the closet. "I meant what I said -- I really don't mind if Ichimaru-san shows me around."

"Tch. Have you even properly _met_ the guy?"

"As a matter of fact, yes -- we bumped into each other last night, in the kitchen." It was, technically, true.

The redhead waited a beat, then prompted, "And. . .?"

"And what?"

"And he didn't give you the creepin' willies right off the bat?"

Not quite knowing how to honestly reply without giving away his own curiosity of the boy under discussion, Izuru hunched up his shoulders in what he hoped was a diplomatic shrug, biting back a wince as the bruise he had almost forgotten about pulsed once again to life.

"I mean, that _smile. . ._" Renji carried on, thankfully oblivious to the blond's discomfort. "What the hell is so fuckin' funny all the damn time? And the way he skulks around, always turning up where you least expect to see him, like he's tryin' to catch you in the act of. . .of whatever. Anything. Just to _catch_ you. I dunno what Rangiku sees in him."

"They're just good friends, right? Or are they going out?"

Renji snorted with laughter. "Hah! I'm sure he wishes -- and to his credit, he's gotten closer than most. Than anyone, maybe. But even Fox-Face isn't _that_ good. Matsumoto's a cocktease. She doesn't actually 'go out' with anybody, ever."

Izuru couldn't help but think of Rangiku at ten, at twelve, with a faceless father who nevertheless had hands -- hands, and other things. He got the impression it was a story that Renji didn't know.

"Why?" the redhead asked. "D'you like her or somethin'?"

Izuru was nearly startled enough to choke on his own spit. "Wh-wh-what?!" he spluttered, reddening. "No! It was only a question. She's. . .she's really. . .but she's not my type."

Renji quirked an eyebrow at him skeptically. "I've never met a straight, healthy teenaged male for whom Matsumoto Rangiku wasn't his type. Unless. . ." The metaphorical lightbulb hovering above Renji's head guttered to life. Mahogany eyes widened. "Kira, you're not. . ."

Izuru froze, ironically facing the closet. Truth be told, he had never given his sexuality much more than a cursory glance. A glance was all he had ever had time for, between school and clubs and baseball and, and everything else. He'd certainly never had time for girls, but that had never bothered him, and very rarely did he think about it long enough to wonder _why. . ._

". . .you're not male, are you?"

Izuru grabbed the nearest unbreakable-looking item -- a Chappy plushie wearing a conical birthday hat -- and hurled it with a pitcher's expertise at Renji's spiky scarlet head. The boy ducked and and curled, shielding Zabimaru with his body. Cries of "Snake! Snake! No projectiles!" echoed against the wall.

". . .seriously, though," Renji went on once it became clear that he was no longer under attack, "it's cool if you're not -- straight, that is. I don't. . .no one here has a problem with that sort of thing. Except maybe Iba, but he's giant wad of repressed mother issues, so odds are he's the biggest fag out of all of us."

Tentatively, frowning, Izuru turned around. "You're. . .?"

"Oh, no, I like girls," Renji quickly asserted. "I'm definitely. . ." His eyes strayed guiltily to the feudal scroll pinned to the wall. "I like girls. I do. Mostly_. _Like, ninety-nine percent of the time."

"And the other one percent. . .?"

The redhead opened his mouth, then closed it tightly, momentarily buttoned it shut with a press of teeth into his bottom lip. "I. . .wait." He shifted mental gears, steering the conversation away from himself with an abruptness that could almost pass for skill. "If you're not straight, and you don't like Ran. . .oh fuck me, you don't like Fox-Face, do you?"

Izuru shot him a heated glare. "I told you, it was only a question. I don't _like_ anybody. I haven't even been here two full days_,_ my family just died, and I -- I never _said_ I wasn't straight to begin with, you just took it upon yourself to _assume--_"

"Hey," Renji broke in, his expression contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just talking out of my ass. I do that. A lot. That's why my breath always stinks." He offered Izuru a penitent smile.

The blond sighed, and pushed the angular forelock of his hair out of his eyes. "I know you were. It's okay. I'm just kind of. . .edgy, right now. I shouldn't have gotten so defensive."

"Almost _too_ defensive. . .okay, okay," Renji backpedaled at the admonishing look Izuru sent his way. "Suman. I'll shut up."

And he did. For a few minutes.

"So. . .they died, huh?"

Izuru paused in putting away his socks. ". . .yeah."

Renji nodded, absently stroking his slithery pet. "That's rough."

"Yeah."

He said nothing else, and it struck Izuru then just how much of Pure Souls got by on inference alone. Questions were rarely asked and counsel even more rarely given. Rin had not inquired as to his circumstances that morning, and neither had Gin extended any words of consolation to him the night before. The place ran on silence, Izuru realized, and the lives it contained were made golden through taciturn implications. It was a house full of geniuses ruled by ignorant bliss.

". . .you don't like _me,_ do you? 'Cause, no offense or anything, but you're not in that one percent."

". . .no, Abarai-kun, I don't like you."

"Ah, good. But just not in that way, right? I mean, you think I'm an all right guy, don't you?

". . .Kira?"

* * *

_Burn me a fire **in the reptile house**  
In the color and the carnage fall me down  
My face in the fire in the reptile house  
And the kissing and the color come crashing down. . ._ -- The Sisters of Mercy, "Burn"

* * *

**A/N:** _Hrr. I'm as pleased as I'm ever going to be with this chapter, I suppose. Renji hijacks. _¬.¬ _References: the first TV show Rin flips through is the Death Note anime (I couldn't resist, & how well would Rin & L get on, anyway? Two cake- & candy-obsessed misfits who stare at computer screens all day in shinigami-centric worlds. . .); the second of course is Don Kanonji's Ghost Bust; & the third is, as stated, Sasuke, which is marketed in the West as Ninja Warrior. You know the Second Division would be all over it._

_TheAngelofLucifer, your review cracked ME up. I can't get the image out of my brain of Gin in a tux & Aizen in a wedding dress exchanging their vows while Kira, in pink Chanel & with runny mascara, sniffles into his handkerchief & waits for the "speak now or forever hold your peace" line. XD_

_trishika, I responded to your questions in a PM, but I don't know if you received it. . .?_

_Junsui Kegasu, your comments made me grin madly, thank you. As for Gin's story, well, that remains to be seen. . ._

_& as always, thanks, everyone who's scrolled this far, for reading. More Gin, plus Seireitei Academy, its marginally less tragic students, & its. . .unique. . .faculty members, including (finally) Renji's one percent, are all waiting in the wings._


	5. A Leper Messiah

**V. A Leper Messiah (Squinter Rules)**

* * *

The morning routine at Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children had been refined over time to almost military precision, with the rotating usage of sinks and shower stalls, and a lot of getting out of the way should one of the younger boys find his place in the lineup usurped by an elder who had overslept or lost time sniffing through dirty laundry for a clean enough undershirt. Breakfast, unlike dinner, was already portioned out in the dining room, eleven bowls of rice and miso soup served together like cereal and milk, each awaiting a differently-timed consumption as a student went about his or her getting ready. In the genkan, Aizen conducted inspection as shoes were tugged on, laced, Velcro'd or otherwise buckled, ascertaining that all required homework and textbooks were accounted for in each student's bookbag, and that uniforms were worn in the designated fashion.

"Renji, headband," he reminded, redoing one of Momo's pigtails that had been tugged loose by a teasing Rikichi.

"It's in my pocket," the redhead grumbled.

"Renji, headband."

_Sigh._ "Fine."

Izuru rubbed at a scuff on the toe of his sneaker and used the opportunity to cast a furtive glance at Gin through his still shower-damp forelock. The silver-haired boy didn't seem to function well in the mornings. He had yet to speak or smile even once, and his closed eyes were now focused on the task of cramming in a last couple of minutes' sleep, his long body stretched out on the hardwood floor of the hallway and shod feet hanging over the edge of the depressed genkan. In the dark blue blazer of his winter uniform, with his arms folded over his stomach, Izuru thought he resembled a corpse without a coffin.

Rangiku kicked at the sole of her best friend's shoe to nudge him awake when Aizen began herding the group out the door. Gin cracked open one eyelid, too quickly for Izuru to catch the color, then bolted upright with a speed that belied his sleepy demeanor. He yawned and stretched and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet -- only to topple immediately forward, so that his arms were wrapped around Rangiku's waist and his face happily pillowed against her breasts with a mumbled, "Five more minutes, Okan. . ."

Izuru tensed expectantly for the bodily harm that would no doubt imminently befall the lanky boy, but was surprised when Rangiku only sighed and twisted around in his grasp.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," she ordered, walking out the door. Not releasing his hold, Gin shuffled awkwardly but obediently behind her.

Izuru exchanged glances with Renji, who rolled his eyes and followed. Izuru made to do the same, but was stopped by Aizen's hand on his shoulder.

"Kira-kun, I almost forgot--" He fished what looked to be a white credit card out of his pocket and handed it to the blond. "That's your lunch card. Simply swipe it when you get to the register in the cafeteria. Gin will show you."

Izuru wondered what was so complicated about swiping a card that Gin would have to show him, but figured Aizen was just padding whatever first-day jitters he might have had with extra indirect reassurance. He thanked the man and managed something like a smile -- it felt a little like a grimace -- at his cheerfully canned decree that Izuru was to have good luck and make some new friends.

He left the house just in time to see Gin slide into the backseat of a stripped-to-primer old Toyota helmed by a head of spiky black hair, with Rangiku riding shotgun.

"Right. Gin'll show me. Once his ADD flips back to my channel. . ."

"Oi, Kira!" Renji waved at him from the side of an azure Audi SUV parked just beyond the gates, into which Iba was currently climbing. Izuru jogged over and hopped in behind Renji. He was greeted by, of all things, a cloud of red balloons, and the mingling scents of wisteria and leather interior.

"A third?" a smooth, august voice intoned from the driver's seat. "Need I remind you, Abarai-kun, that I am not a chauffeur service?"

"Oh what, like it's out of your way? Relax, Yumi. It's his first day. Make the kid feel welcome."

"Well, perhaps I _would_ if _someone_ were polite enough to introduce him before speaking about him as if he weren't actually present."

"Eh? --Right." Renji snagged the handful of balloons nearest the front of the vehicle by their strings and yanked them down, revealing the owner of the voice's equally smooth and august face, framed by an impeccably styled aubergine bob. "Ayasegawa Yumichika, Kira Izuru, latest Lost Soul."

"Pleasure." Yumichika held out his hand, and for a moment Izuru wasn't certain if he was meant to kiss it or shake it. He opted for the latter, and found the androgynous boy's grip surprisingly firm.

"Likewise. Um. . .I'm sorry if I'm imposing--"

"Oh, not at all," Yumi smiled and brushed the apology aside with a blasé wave of his hand. "You'll be a welcome change in the rearview mirror -- which I will actually be able to see out of, if you three would be kind enough to keep those balloons below seat-level, thank you."

"What are they for, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Ooh, did you hear that, Abarai-kun?" Yumichika said over his shoulder. "Those are called _manners._ We who do not wish to sound as though we were brought up in a Hueco Mundo whorehouse try to make frequent use of them."

"Well then keep trying, Yumi, and one day you might succeed," Renji retaliated with a lazy grin.

"What was that? Abarai-kun no longer requires rides to school? How very convenient for me--"

"All right, all right, you don't sound like a whore."

"Thank you."

". . .you just look like one."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, you're no fun before your morning coffee."

Renji, Izuru mused, seemed to skate by socially nigh entirely through his ability to rhyme.

Behind his sunglasses, Iba glowered out the window. "Wish _I_ had been brought up in a whorehouse. . ."

"Mm. Anyway, to answer your question, Kira-kun" -- Violet eyes flashed merrily at Izuru in the rearview mirror -- "the balloons are for the birthday boy, who we are on our way to retrieve."

"Yumi here likes to show his affection by humiliating those he holds most dear," Renji explained.

"That's not true," objected Yumichika. "That's just what Renji tells himself, because he's never been on the receiving end of my affection."

"I thought _you_ were usually the receiving end?"

The androgyne lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow, but shrugged, allowing that one. "Touché."

The ride continued thus for the next few minutes, with Izuru getting the impression that the back-and-forth banter was and had always been a single argument that only occasionally broke for sleep, class, or food -- and the last only because Yumichika didn't seem the type to talk with his mouth open.

The blond settled back in his seat and watched out the window as the scenery gradually blurred from the high walls, gates, and the rich green lawns beyond them of upscale properties, to the modest but neat yards of a more middle-class neighborhood, and then finally into steady rows of substantially smaller, older, close-together houses that fell just this side of respectable-looking. Yumi eased the SUV to a stop in front of one squat, brown minka with a thatched roof, and honked the horn.

Minutes passed.

"Oh come _on,_ Ikkaku. . ." he muttered, honking again.

Success, in the form of an irate-looking teenaged skinhead with red-rimmed eyes, bounded out the front door of the house, got his bookbag caught on one of the small stone dragons standing guard on either side of it, swore, struggled free, and continued on to leap into the passenger's seat of the truck. A piece of toast dangled from between his teeth, and his jacket hung from one arm, only halfway on.

"Goddamn it, Yumi, when're your folks gonna get the fuck out so I can come back home?" he demanded through a spray of crumbs.

"Don't worry, they're leaving for Paris on Monday." Yumichika frowned thoughtfully. "Or was it New York. . .?"

"Tch. The way they come and go, you'd think they live there."

"Indeed. You can vacuum that seat tomorrow, by the way. I say tomorrow, becaaause to-day is your birth-day!" he sing-songed happily. "Happy seventeenth, Ikka-kun!"

As one, Renji, Iba and Izuru released the balloons. They floated up to bump unspectacularly against the roof of the truck.

Ikkaku's voice resonated firmly from beyond the red rubber curtain.

"_No._"

"Yes."

"No! Damn it, Yumichika, I am _not_ walking around carrying that pussy shit all day! Not this year!

". . .don't gimme that look. I mean it. It's _my_ birthday, and it's _my_ fucking decision. No.

"Yumi.

"Yumichika, _stop._

"Don't you. . .Yumichi--_gakghahkuhgaa!_"

* * *

In the student parking lot of Seireitei Academy, Ikkaku glared. In fact, Izuru was convinced that, if he looked closely, the day was cool enough that one could actually watch the heated fury rise from the bald boy's gleaming pate in rippling waves.

Yumichika threw confetti. Some of it stuck to skin made dewy with rage.

". . .I hate you."

"Don't be silly," the androgyne sniffed. "You look perfectly festive. Doesn't he look festive, Shuu-chan?" he called over to a body -- male, going by the blue bottom half of its uniform -- bent double inspecting the engine of a very familiar-looking primer-gray Toyota. "Shuu-chan" jerked in response to Yumichika's voice, a loud clang echoing from inside the open hood of the car. He staggered back, clutching a head of spiky black hair.

"Aho son of a-- _what,_ Ayasegawa?" the boy scowled.

Yumi smiled, unfazed. "I said, doesn't Ikkaku look appropriately festive today?"

Black eyes scanned the newly-minted seventeen-year-old, taking in the five balloons apiece tied to each wrist, lingering on the additional seven suspended above Ikkaku's head, tethered there by a collar of red ribbons around his neck.

". . .I am so sorry. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Che. Thanks."

Yumichika rolled his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. "_Boys. . ._oh! Shuu-chan! You haven't met Kira-kun!"

Izuru found himself suddenly thrust into being the center of attention -- quite literally, as one of Iba's hands came between his shoulder blades to shove him, stumbling, forward.

"Uh. Hi. Kira Izuru." He held out his hand.

"Hisagi Shuuhei." The black-eyed boy shook it.

Somewhere nearby, an insomniac among crickets chirped.

". . .well, I gotta split," said Shuuhei, lowering the hood of his car and dusting his hands off on his pants. "I gotta walk Sajin and get Tousen-sensei's lecture outline written up on the board before first period."

"Nothin' quite like the smell of marker fumes and dog shit first thing in the morning ta start the day off right," Ikkaku smirked. "Man, wish _I'd_ got picked ta be a blind man's T.A."

"Ne, Ikkaku, don't be jealous of Shuu-chan's superior desirability, even amongst men who can't see."

Shuuhei flushed scarlet. "I'll, uh, I'll see you guys later. . ."

"Oi, wait a sec, Hisagi-san!"

"Huh, Renji?"

"Take Kira with you. He's got Tousen for homeroom, too."

"Does he?" Shuuhei regarded the blond boy for a moment, then nodded. "All right, then. Come on."

"Aa, thanks."

"We'll see you later, Kira-kun," Yumichika said pleasantly, giving them a little wave. "Bye, Shuu-chan!"

Shuuhei grunted a goodbye and stalked off, Izuru in tow.

Iba snickered. "Man, Yumi, when ya gonna stop tormenting that guy?"

"When he stops tormenting himself by denying his attraction to me."

"Denying his. . .he's straight, Yumi. _S-t-r-a-i-g-h-t._"

Yumichika only looked serene as he watched the object of his infatuation disappear inside. "Every horizon has a curve, my friend. Wouldn't you agree, Abarai-kun?"

"Mmffmehwhatever." Renji jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled determinedly, head down, towards the school.

Yumi beeped on the alarm in his SUV and glanced at his two remaining passengers. "Shall we?"

"Wait." Iba punched one of Ikkaku's balloons. It rebounded comically off the bald boy's head. He smirked. "Okay, now I'm ready."

Ikkaku punched one of Iba's kidneys. Iba rebounded comically off the pavement. Ikkaku grinned. "Me too! Let's go."

* * *

According to Renji, owing to Seireitei's highly individualized approach to each student's curriculum, class schedules were designed Western-style, with the students changing classrooms instead of the teachers. This in itself had not sounded too daunting. Now, however, as he stared at the four identical white buildings fencing him in on all sides like enormous sentries, a splinter of apprehension began to work its way under Izuru's skin.

The place was a study in geometrical precision and symmetry. The white walls were lined with row upon row of white lockers, stacked two high and at least fifty long. Between them stretched an expansive courtyard, with broad swaths of bright green grass freckled by evenly-spaced fruit trees and veined with pale stone pathways of varying widths, the widest of which converged around a pumping heart in the form of a large, kappa-themed fountain located in the center of the square. A place for everything, and everything in its place -- or rather, one thing in every place: one hive mind, all slanting vectors converging to create a bleached honeycomb of classrooms. It was as if the school had been designed around an abstract notion of omnicognizance, an architecture of absolute knowledge that would allow no negative to pass through its bracketing buildings.

Izuru found the repetition alone overwhelming to the point of disorientation, and he held back the urge to grip the strap of Shuuhei's bookbag as the black-eyed boy plunged into the swarm of students chatting on cell phones, exchanging homework assignments, applying last minute touch-ups to makeup, and more or less cramming in any activity the means for which would soon be declared confiscatable.

He got precisely two steps into the throng when something grabbed hold of _his_ bookbag strap instead. A cold hand clamped over Izuru's mouth, stifling his startled shout as he was yanked backwards out of the crowd, whirled around and rammed bodily up against the wall of the main entrance.

"Gotcha," hissed a low voice, lilting with amused triumph, next to his ear. In the next moment, Izuru was spun around again and released, coming face to grinning face with his errant tour guide. "Mornin', Kira-kouhai."

Caught somewhere between horror, anger, and relief, Izuru shoved the older boy away. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Gin frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck, appearing to give the question serious thought. "Early-onset bipolar disorder? But don' worry -- I'm on an upswing at the moment." He smiled winningly and gave Izuru a thumbs-up.

The blond opened his mouth to question the veracity of the claim, but closed it quickly, doubting he would be able to trust however Gin might answer. He reminded himself of what he had inwardly pledged the previous evening -- that he would match Gin move for figurative move.

"So now that you've decided I exist again, are you actually going to show me where I'm supposed to be?" he asked, purposely flattening his tone.

There was a subtle shift in Gin's expression, not so much a dimming of his smile as a change in its character, a more specific focus to its amusement.

"That's what I'm here for," he said, nodding, then turned abruptly on his heel and started for one of the immense white buildings. "Come wit' me, Kouhai-chan."

Izuru grit his teeth at the condescension of the title. He searched a moment through the crowd for Shuuhei, but he was nowhere to be seen -- he must not have noticed Izuru's sudden disappearance and gone on ahead without him.

He returned his gaze to Gin. The older boy stood a few meters away, waiting patiently, silver head cocked expectantly.

Sighing, Izuru followed and fell into step behind him.

* * *

It was not to Tousen-sensei's classroom that they first went, but to the library, where Izuru's situation was explained to a severe-looking young woman who could not have suited her surroundings more perfectly. Violet-blue eyes narrowed skeptically at the two boys from behind a pair of rounded spectacles. A blouse buttoned full to the neck prevented any pleasing glimpses down its front -- not that Izuru would have glimpsed in the first place -- when she bent over a computer terminal to affirm that his story checked out with the school's records.

All this for the student handbook Izuru presently held (as if it contained secrets far beyond those of a locker assignment, behavioral guidelines and the lyrics to the Seireitei Academy school song), to say nothing of the militant brusqueness with which he was ushered behind the counter and in front of a plain white screen to have his ID photo taken.

"C'mon, Kira-kouhai, smile like ya mean it," goaded Gin from the other side of the counter. "Say cheese!"

"Baka."

"Excuse me, what was that?" the librarian -- how had Gin addressed her? Ise-sensei, right -- frostily enquired.

"I said, butter." And Izuru thought perhaps he liked Abarai-kun well enough after all.

Ise-sensei's lips pursed. She forewent warning him of the flash. Spots of acid-bright burnout swam in front of his eyes as they waited for the picture to be printed out and adhered securely to the first page of his handbook.

"Lemme see, lemme see," Gin badgered, snapping up the booklet before Izuru could tuck it safely out of sight. He peered at it closely, turned it upside-down, then right-side-up again. "Aww. Ya look so sleepy."

Izuru snatched it back from him, glanced once at the photo and blushed, embarrassed, before relegating the handbook to the deepest recesses of his bookbag. "What is it with you taking my things without asking?" he groused.

Gin only looked at him, narrow-eyed and impassive. A bell rang, a shrill and obnoxious reprieve.

"Ah! We're late!" Gin said cheerfully, taking Izuru by the wrist and hustling him towards the library doors. "Ookini, Ise-sensei!"

"Ichimaru. . ." Ise-sensei muttered under her breath as they left, shaking her head before resuming her seat in front of the computer monitor, where Izuru's picture was still displayed in the main window. She wondered what Aizen had been thinking, appointing such a flagrant slacker to be the poor boy's host.

Curious, she opened the slight blond's schedule file. Well, she figured, if nothing else it would prepare him for his fourth period class. Still, it seemed a pity. . .

She closed the schedule window, and the new boy's face returned to the screen. The Pure Souls students never turned out quite right in their ID photos. There was always too much of something reflected in their gazes -- even Ichimaru's, smiling so hard his tear ducts were likely welded shut, as if because the premature lines in his young face were from grins instead of grimaces it made them any less _there._

Kira Izuru looked simply. . .cracked, from the dryness of his downturned mouth to the creases of fatigue surrounding his eyes, to his eyes themselves, the whites shot through with more sleepless red than should have been there at his age.

A message window popped up, accompanied by the sound bite she'd assigned to the username from which it was sent. #It's yet another in a long series of diversions in an attempt to avoid responsibility.#

She groaned.

**KyourakuShunsui: **& how is my lovely nanao-chan this fine autumn morn?? :D xoxo

He did it deliberately to irritate her, she was certain -- defied all known laws of proper grammar and punctuation despite the subject he taught, seemingly allergic to any usage of the Shift key not pertaining to those ridiculous emoticons he abused with buoyant abandon.

She adjusted her glasses so that they sat higher on the bridge of her nose and, against her better judgment, typed a reply.

**IseNanao:** Kyouraku-sensei, need I remind you _again_ that the instant messenger system is to be used only in relation to official Seireitei Academy business?  
**KyourakuShunsui:** but nanao-chan, i _am_ officially looking for relations in seireitei academy

**IseNanao status changed to Away**

**KyourakuShunsui: **;o; nanaaao-chaaan

**IseNanao is away from keyboard**

**KyourakuShunsui:** gomenasai, nanao-chan u.u

**IseNanao is away from keyboard  
IseNanao has returned from Away**

**KyourakuShunsui:** :D:D:D!! my nanao-chan has returned to me!!1  
**IseNanao:** Only to let you know that Aizen-san's newest is here today. And I am not your Nanao-chan.  
**KyourakuShunsui: **he's starting already? that was fast  
**KyourakuShunsui:** have u met him?  
**IseNanao:** He left the library a few minutes ago, with Ichimaru Gin.  
**KyourakuShunsui:** ichimaru-kun, eh? yare yare, what will sousuke think of next?  
**IseNanao:** I had wondered that same thing.  
**KyourakuShunsui:** ahhh, see how my nanao-chan & i are mentally linked? :3 i keep telling u, we are fated  
**IseNanao:** I see how one of us is fatally mental.  
**KyourakuShunsui:** u wound me, nanao-chan :'(  
**IseNanao:** Don't you have a class to conduct? As in, right now?  
**KyourakuShunsui:** the ability to think independent of leadership is a valuable lesson, nanao-chan  
**IseNanao:** As the tuition here can undoubtedly attest. Goodbye, Kyouraku-sensei.  
**KyourakuShunsui:** wait!!  
**KyourakuShunsui:** have lunch w/me today??  
**KyourakuShunsui:** nanao-chan?  
**KyourakuShunsui:** r u there?

**IseNanao has signed off**

* * *

There was a knock at the door, rapid and unrelenting. Hisagi Shuuhei paused in his copying to the whiteboard at the front of the classroom from the few pages of printouts (translated electronically from Braille to romaji, then in his head from romaji to kanji) that he held in his hand to glance at the narrow window above the knob.

Another knob, this one grinning, was visible above it, its nose pressed flat against the glass. The locked door handle rattled pointedly.

Behind his desk, Shuuhei's dark-skinned teacher sighed. "Let him in."

Shuuhei did.

Ichimaru Gin swaggered inside, trailed by a pale, tense-looking blond.

"Ohayou, Tousen-sensei!" he greeted. "Sorry we're late -- had ta get my lil' kouhai here all set up with his handbook in the library."

"Kouhai?" the civics instructor monotonously enquired.

"Kira Izuru, sir," Shuuhei supplied.

With the absence of ocular communication, recognition seemed to ripple over the blind man's body like a shroud. "Ah, yes, Aizen-sama's newest charge. As such, I will overlook your tardiness today. Welcome to Seireitei Academy; I believe there is an empty desk at the back of the fifth row."

Tousen spoke without moving, nor even inclining his head in the direction he must have assumed Izuru to be. It was a uniquely eerie experience, and one that left Izuru feeling awkward, unknowing as to whether it would be expected, unnecessary, or just plain rude to bow as etiquette would normally dictate. He compromised with a perfunctory nod and a formal "Arigatou gozaimasu," and quickly found his seat.

There was a low growl of response from under Tousen's desk, where, incidentally, Gin had crouched down on his hands and knees.

"Ichimaru."

"Sensei?"

"Tell me, do I make a habit of petting your eyes without asking?"

"No," Gin admitted. "Not without askin'."

A few titters of laughter rose up from the class. Tousen's face remained deadpan.

"Then kindly extend to me that same courtesy and take your seat."

"Yosh! Where d'ya want me ta take it?"

Shuuhei rolled his eyes. "Just sit down, Ichimaru."

"Hai, hai, Hisagi-kun. . ." Gin shuffled with exaggerated obedience to an unoccupied desk in the middle of the third row. He twisted around in his seat to catch Izuru's eye and waved. The younger boy sank further down in his chair and averted his gaze. Shuuhei shot him a sympathetic smirk.

A loud crackling broke through over the loudspeaker mounted next to the clock on the front wall of the room, followed by an ear-splitting shriek of feedback that caused even Tousen to wince, and then distant sounds of an argument held not far enough away from a microphone.

#It's my turn to introduce the announcements!#

#It is not! You did them yesterday!#

#But I was absent the day before that, so you got to do them twice in a row!#

#So? It's not my fault you were sick!#

#Just give me the mic--#

#No! It's _my_ turn--#

Sounds of a scuffle ensued, until a muffled _thump_ and a high-pitched yelp of pain declared a victor. A throat was noisily cleared.

#Ohayou gozaimasu, Seireitei Academy! This is Kotetsu Kiyone and Kotsubaki Sentarou# -- There was a whimper in the background -- #bringing you the morning announcements for today, Friday, the ninth of November.

#Yamada Hanatarou reports that the Table Tennis Club's first match of the year against Hueco Mundo High School will be held next Tuesday, the thirteenth, at our home gymnasium, so come on out and show them your support! And by support, Yamada-kun has asked politely for it to be clarified that fans are _not_ required to throw athletic undergarments, washed or otherwise, at the tables mid-match; the team still has plenty left over from last year.

#Also, kendo practice has been canceled for this afternoon, owing to the unauthorized replacement of all the dos with woks. If you have any information about the location of the missing equipment or the perpetrators of this prank, please see team captain Madarame Ikkaku and make his birthday a happier one than it's been so far.

#In other news, Tsukabishi-sensei is offering a reward for the safe return of ten missing wo. . .oh. Oi, does this mean I get the reward?#

Izuru ears gradually closed of their own accord to his housemate's cheery voice as his attention slipped elsewhere. He peered around the classroom, mildly surprised that, despite their teacher's inability to visibly witness any misconduct, the students were remarkably well-behaved. A handful read books, although they took care to turn the pages as silently as possible. Some dozed, with heavy heads resting on palms or pillowed on folded arms, but none slept so carelessly as to actually snore.

Tousen himself sat straight-backed, his fingers laced together atop his desk, with the serene dignity of a monk having long achieved zen. Unlike most sightless people Izuru had seen, the black man did not disguise his condition with shaded glasses, but rather stared openly into his own darkness through disconcerting, milky eyes. It was that, Izuru figured, which probably kept any insubordination from his pupils -- with perhaps one exception -- at bay. That, and the man likely possessed hearing acute enough to rival the auditory range of the canid companion presently hidden from view beneath his desk. No wonder loud, crude Renji had difficulty in his class, and, in a somewhat similar manner, was so often called out by farsighted Aizen.

_Among the blind, the squinter rules,_ Kira Kagekiyo's voice invaded his son's thoughts without warning, and Izuru went rigid in his seat by trained response.

He couldn't relax for some minutes, until it became apparent to his muscle memory that there would be no concomitant guiding hand to his shoulder that still twinged with both its bruise and years of gentle pressure _instilling_ -- formality, steering, monition and, yes, warmth. Pride.

Love.

Never again.

Izuru groped for a distraction. He struggled to recall the source of the quote. It had been one of his father's favorites, often spouted while the man perused stacks of stock reports in his study after dinner, keen green eyes discriminating nuggets of breadth from an assembly of advance-decline lines, sieving sapphire blue chips from a sediment of sentiments. He knew how to read between the lines of a graph as well as or better than Izuru himself could locate symbolism and subtext in a favorite story.

Damn it, who was its author?

A small, crumpled piece of paper landed on his desk with all the effect on his nerves of a hand grenade, and he nearly leapt out of his seat in surprise. It took a second look for him to notice that the paper was not actually crumpled at all, but intricately folded into a small origami cat with disproportionately large ears and tail. _Open me,_ its torso read. Izuru followed the instruction. Inside was scrawled a question in sharp but clean-looking strokes, _You okay?_

He searched the room, and found only one face focused on his own. It squinted at him in a concerned sort of way, and he realized that the note hadn't been shaped into a cat at all.

* * *

Shuuhei approached him when the bell rang to signal the changeover from homeroom to first period classes.

"Hey," said the black-eyed boy. "Sorry I lost you this morning."

"That's all right," Izuru assured him, "it wasn't your fault. You didn't actually lose me so much as I was kidnapped."

"Aa. I didn't even notice you were gone until I'd been talking to myself for at least a full minute, and then the weird looks I kept getting from other people kinda tipped me off. Thought you might've gotten trampled in the quad."

Izuru smiled wryly. "No such luck."

"Saa, Hisagi-kun," Gin tsked, sidling up behind his charge, "tryin' ta steal my kouhai again? Getcher own; I ain't sharin'." He wrapped his arms around said kouhai, pinning the blond's arms to his sides, and gave the boy a possessive squeeze. Izuru felt the angry burn of a blush creep quickly up his throat and reach all the way to his hairline.

"Please let go of me," he ordered, straining to keep the panicky edge out of his voice. "Now."

"Hai, hai," Gin complied, his voice containing not so much as a trace of shame. "Whatever you say, Kouhai-chan."

"And stop calling me that. It's. . .degrading."

Gin took a step back, looking genuinely puzzled. He seemed to literally diminish as the joy faded from his expression, growing smaller as his shoulders slumped, thinner as his cheeks narrowed strikingly in the absence of his ever-present smile.

"Gomen na," he apologized. "Didn't mean no harm. Your next class is on the ground floor. Just hang a right at the bottom of the stairs an' it'll be the third door on your left, second from the main doors." And with a small, bobbing bow that put Izuru in the mind of an excusatory bird, he exited the the classroom, pausing only once to forlornly request that Hisagi-kun be a better host than he was, and to take good care of Kira-han.

"Damn fool," Shuuhei muttered with a shake of his head, then turned to his unanticipated charge. "Let me see your schedule."

Kira-han, feeling suddenly burdensome, dug the paper out of his bookbag and handed it over. "Um, it's okay if you don't want to do this. I'm sure I'll be able to find everything on my own."

"Don't worry about it. _He's_ the dumbass for shirking his duties like that. Come on, let's walk while we do this or we'll be late. Sensei, will you need me here for anything at lunch?"

Tousen's fingers stilled over the embossed pages of a book he had open on his desk, and he replied without raising his head, "No thank you, Hisagi. Until fifth period."

"Hai."

* * *

"Is he always so easily triggered?" Izuru asked as they trotted down the stairs. "Ichimaru-san, I mean."

"Eh, I guess. Sometimes. Not really, though." Shuuhei shrugged ambiguously. "He probably wasn't serious. He usually isn't. He just likes to press buttons, yank chains, pull legs. . .in fact if I were you I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up to meet you at the end of class and acted like nothing happened."

"Do you know him well, then?"

"Well enough. As well as I care to know him."

"Oh. I. . .I thought you two might be friends. You gave him a ride this morning, didn't you?"

Shuuhei arched a pierced eyebrow. "Observant, aren't you? Technically, I gave Rangiku a ride, and she bartered for his passage."

"Bartered?"

"Yeah. She said please and I caved like the spineless sucker I am -- or that she makes me, anyway. But, you know. You've seen her."

Izuru's mind flashed back to his and Renji's argument the previous evening.

"I have," he responded vaguely, not wanting to repeat it.

"Here we are." They stopped in front of the door Gin had described, second to the right of the main exit. "English, Sasakibe-sensei, room 102."

"Thanks."

Shuuhei nodded. "He'll like you -- Sasakibe-sensei. He's obsessed with all things Western and, well." He smirked and gestured at Izuru's pale yellow hair. "I've got Physics next. The math and science classes are all in the building across the quad, so I'll meet you at the fountain if Ichimaru's still pouting."

"Right. See you." Izuru ducked inside the classroom as Shuuhei jogged off toward the main doors.

The black-eyed boy hadn't been lying -- the room was practically a shrine to Europe, a small mock-museum of reproductions. The walls were papered with framed prints of famous paintings, most of which Izuru recalled having glimpsed in a book of his mother's on the Louvre. Heavy, tapestry-like curtains framed the windows, and classical music played softly from a small sound system occupying the southwest corner of the room -- Mahler's Symphony No. 3 in D, Izuru's memory provided, that knowledge also obtained from Kira Shizuka. He could remember, as a child, falling asleep more than once to the languid comodo of the piece's third movement, and even now felt the notes drift like dandelion puffs through the air to hook weightily onto his eyelashes.

Thus dazed, he nearly fell over at the solid punch unexpectedly received by the upper part of his left arm.

"Wakey wakey, eggs an' steaky," quipped a sardonically grinning Iba as he passed, followed by a disgruntled-looking Madarame Ikkaku, to whose birthday decorations had been added a paper crown and a number of small stuffed animals and packages of snacks and candy, all safety-pinned to his uniform.

"Yo," he grumbled, and proffered a shoulder, "Pretz?"

"Er. No thanks."

"Eh. Suit yourself."

"I prefer the peach-jasmine gummies myself," Yumichika smiled from behind his bald friend. "They're very restorative. Come sit with us, Kira-kun."

They clustered together at the back of the room, near as they could get to the windows and the possibility of distraction, although Izuru hardly required the assistance. He barely even registered when Sasakibe-sensei -- or Mr. Sasakibe, as he specified he was to be addressed -- took roll, complimented Izuru on his hair, and delegated the responsibility of finding him a textbook to Mr. Iba, who would do well to remove his sunglasses while in class if he did not want to end up writing a report on a British monarch of Mr. Sasakibe's choosing.

Izuru couldn't stop thinking about Gin.

Shuuhei was right, of course -- Gin shouldn't have abandoned his responsibilities as he had, and especially not so early in the day; but somehow, Izuru was left with the feeling that _he_ had been the one doing the abandoning. The silver-haired boy had looked and sounded so awfully _hurt,_ which was ridiculous, as Izuru hadn't been intentionally unkind in his rebukes, or even particularly rude. He hadn't even thrown a punch -- although at the time he had sorely wanted to.

Izuru knew, rationally, that he had been well within his rights to be upset by the older boy's actions. They were invasive and uncalled for, and had been since the night Izuru first met Ichimaru Gin.

So then why had their most recent exchange tied a knot of something akin to remorse in his stomach?

In all likelihood, Gin's overreaction had been just another joke, a masking of sarcasm with sadness in order to manipulate Izuru between precisely the emotional rock-and-a-hard-place where he was currently wedged. He should have been feeling pissed off, not like a piece of shit. If Gin was only toying with him, then Izuru was playing right into the fox-faced boy's hands. Unacceptable.

But then, there was also the matter of the fox itself -- the little origami inquiry that, no matter which angle Izuru studied it from, seemed to lack any agenda beyond its simple, straightforward contents.

It was safe -- or at least accurate -- to say that at this point in time, Gin knew him better than anyone at Pure Souls or Seireitei Academy. It had been those same grasping hands, after all, that had pulled Izuru away from the rooftop's edge; those same hands that had stopped his teeth from grinding, and stolen his wallet, and alternately pushed him against walls and tugged him in the directions he was supposed to go, and even the lethal crush of a snake around its prey could be called a hug. . .

_Open me.  
You okay?_

Izuru wondered. . .

_Open me._

He wanted to.

He would. The preoccupation was cemented now, with doubt like a dog pawing at the back of his brain. When first period was over, if Gin wasn't waiting for him as Shuuhei predicted, he decided he would give the silver-haired boy the benefit and take it as a sign that the ball was in his possession, and not poised to be thrown at his head. Then, at least, even if he turned out to be wrong, he would be prepared to dodge it.

* * *

He met Shuuhei at the fountain.

The black-eyed boy sighed and mumbled something about stubborn drama queens -- or possibly just queens in general, as he pretended not to see Yumichika's coy, one-fingered wave -- and escorted Izuru to his next class.

The trigonometry room reeked of stale nicotine, as did its overseer. Akon-sensei conducted class with all the idle air of a man filling in a Sunday morning crossword puzzle over a greasy diner breakfast of yesterday's dried-out rice and burnt coffee, while in chemistry, Kurotsuchi-sensei seemed his polar opposite, scurrying lab-coated around the front of the classroom like one of the white rats that filled the cages lining the back of it.

Izuru saw immediately what Rin had meant about his presence requiring a small period of adjustment. Blue-haired and yellow-eyed, the man looked like an experiment unto himself, gaunt from late nights of testing hypotheses the nature of which Izuru didn't care to speculate, fueled by equally enigmatic compounds, for in no respect could his jittery energy be described as that of a sober -- or sane -- man.

The unwritten rule against admissions of ignorance in his classroom was quickly explicated by Kurotsuchi's arrogance. An incorrect answer was preferred to no answer at all because it wasn't enough that a pupil be made to feel stupid -- they had to be branded very clearly as being _wrong._

He lectured on principles by ranting about the inferior techniques employed by the dead men who had discovered them, and his impatience was the horrific stuff of every naked-on-a-test-day nightmare any student had ever dreamt up. Izuru felt more than a little sorry for the pretty T.A. who was consistently berated for her lack of expediency and wit, no matter how swiftly she navigated around him or anticipated his needs (a fresh marker, his coffee mug, the setting up and dissembling of a spontaneous practical demonstration, an untied shoe, etc.). Izuru had gotten the impression that the position of teacher's aid was a sought-after one at the Academy, but he couldn't for the life of him imagine any academic reward so enticing that a person could be moved to volunteer to assist such a verbally abusive and blatantly unappreciative instructor as Kurotsuchi-sensei.

His next class was a relief in every way from the needling atmosphere of the chemistry room. The purpose of Kyouraku-sensei's desk was to bear the weight of nothing more than a laptop, a minimalist vase containing a single long-necked bird of paradise, a cup, and a pot of oolong. He sat not behind the desk but adjacent to it, slipper-footed and cross-legged in the wide bowl of a papasan chair, its cushion upholstered in pink fabric. He was half-dressed, in the sense that only the middle three buttons of his wrinkled, flower-patterned shirt were done up, and his sleeves and the legs of his khaki trousers had been sloppily rolled to his elbows and knees respectively; but his relaxed air was a different sort altogether from Aizen's department store catalogue brand of leisure. His hair was long, his face was in need of a shave, and if a bomb threat was called into the school, the chance of his needing to run to the nearest bathroom to flush a baggie of "tea" before the sniffer dogs arrived was, befittingly, high.

He was the antithesis of what Izuru's father would have deemed an estimable man, and while he sort of thought he shouldn't, Izuru liked him immediately. When he departed the classroom to meet Renji in front of the cafeteria for lunch as per Shuuhei's instructions, it was with the impression that the feeling was mutual.

He found the redhead loitering near a rusting ume tree, flipping through the pages of one of his textbooks.

"Son of a. . .'s not even _in_ this chapter, fuckin' Sasakibe. . ." he grumbled under his breath as Izuru approached.

"Hey."

Renji looked up, closed the book in disgust and crammed it into his bag. "Yo." He turned to kick at the base of the tree. "Oi, Rukia, let's go, I'm starved!"

Izuru peered up into the fiery-leaved branches just in time to see a red-skirted blur neatly penny-drop down to the ground. A tiny girl with enormous dark eyes rose and dusted off the backs of her legs before smiling at him and extending a small hand.

"Konnichiwa. Kira Izuru?" she asked.

"Hai," he verified.

"All right, all right, enough pleasantries," Renji grabbed either of them by the sleeves of their blazers and dragged them in the direction of the cafeteria. "Food now."

Rukia rolled her eyes. "Right, because you're just wasting away. . ."

"I _am!_ Do you have any idea how much metabolic energy it takes to maintain this level of musculature?"

"Hah! Like you do?"

"Anywhere between three thousand and thirty-three hundred calories a day," provided a passing Kotetsu Isane. "Approximately."

Rukia blinked. Renji said, ". . .See?!"

They carried on. With Renji at the forefront, the lunch line was quickly negotiated, as underclassmen and even some older-looking kids hurried to keep out of the ravenous redhead's way. Rukia, bento bag in hand, followed off to the side while the two boys collected cartons of milk, bowls of spaghetti and bread rolls (one for Izuru and three for Renji, the extra two stuffed clandestinely in his pockets), and paid for the fare with a swipe of their lunch cards at the register.

It wasn't until they were seated and Renji had consumed his surplus of rolls that further conversation felt permitted.

"Rukia here used to be among our ranks," Renji began, his words slightly garbled owing to a mouthful of noodles and tomato sauce, "before she got corporate sponsorship."

"Corporate sponsorship?" Izuru asked, tearing open the top of his milk carton.

"_Kuchiki_ Rukia. Check your schedule. Year twelve Japanese History, room 906."

Izuru located the family name in the space alotted for his sixth period class. "Oh. Is he your dad or something?"

"Pfft," Rukia sniffed. "Hardly. He's my brother-in-law. But in a strictly technical capacity, yes, he is my guardian."

"Rukia an' I met at a shelter for street kids a few years back, pre-P.S. We did the foster kid shuffle together for a while, ended up at a lot of the same homes, until one day in walks Kuchiki-sensei and a woman who could've been Rukia's future self come back in time to warn her of an imminent apocalyptic war between humans and cyborgs--"

"She was my sister," Rukia cut him off. "Hisana. Our parents died when she was a teenager and I was a baby. We got separated -- it happens a lot to siblings -- but eventually, she said, she'd finally managed to track me down, and she offered to adopt me. Not being a moron, I accepted. Within a month, she found out she had cancer, and within a year she died."

She told the story with such nonchalance, Izuru didn't know how to react.

". . .wow," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. We didn't really get the chance to become close. But Byakuya-nii-sama and I," she spoke the title with no small trace of irony, "we _never_ got along. I don't think he was too keen on the idea of me to begin with, but after Hisana died. . .well, I was about this close" -- She pinched her thumb and forefinger tightly together -- "to ending up back in another home."

"He was just going to get rid of you like that?"

She struggled with the straw to her juice box as she spoke. "Actually no. It was my decision. But he said he'd promised Hisana he would see that I was taken care of, so he set me up in an apartment of my own and I've been taking advantage of his family's money ever since."

"His family's money?"

"You've seen the library, right?" asked Renji, swiping the juice box out of Rukia's hands and easily inserting the straw before handing it back to her. She beamed and sipped from it happily. "Well, its official name is the Kuchiki Library. It's part of a matched set that contains the Kuchiki Museums of Fine Art and Natural History, the Kuchiki Opera House, and the Kuchiki Combination Car Wash and Sushi Bar."

"Not to mention the Kuchiki Special Ed Orphanage," Rukia piped up.

Renji nodded. "Ayep, Pure Souls, too. A lot of the dough for this school comes from its ridiculously high tuition fees, but the foster home's funded mostly by Kuchiki money, as one of their charity tax write-offs."

Izuru absorbed this new information with a frown. "But. . .if Kuchiki-sensei's so rich, then why does he teach here?"

Rukia defensively held up her hands. "Don't look at me. You'd think it's because he likes kids, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. Or speak to him. Or especially not to take a class taught by him. The inner workings of Nii-sama's mind are a mystery to all -- though Renji thinks he can figure it out. He's made it his goal in life to grow up big and strong and be an insanely rich, emotionally frigid prig just like Nii-sama, haven't you, Renji?"

Renji took a sudden, scowling interest in examining his spaghetti. "Hey, I just wanna make somethin' of myself, and there ain't nobody else around here who's got it made more than Kuchiki-sensei does."

Rukia looked at Izuru and shrugged. "I keep telling him he's wrong, but does he listen?"

"Shut up. You'll see," Renji promised. "You'll see."

"Hmph. So, Kira-kun, how are you liking Seireitei Academy so far?"

"It's fine," Izuru shrugged. "It's definitely different. But I don't think Hisagi-senpai likes me very much."

"Ah, that's right," said Renji. "Shuu told me Fox-Face ditched you even before the first period bell rang. Congratulations."

"Aizen-san stuck him with Ichimaru? Ick." Rukia shuddered. "That guy gives me the creeps. . ."

Izuru sent the two of them a reproachful look. "'That guy' didn't _ditch_ me. . .I think I hurt his feelings, actually."

Renji's eyebrows climbed quizzically to hide behind his headband. "Well, whatever you did, it worked out in your favor, believe me. And don't worry about Shuuhei -- he's just kinda gruff until you get to know him. He was my host when I first got here, and if he could stand _me. . ._trust me, if he didn't like you, I'd've heard about it by now."

"Mm."

The blond's eyes wandered the cafeteria as Rukia asked Renji if the missing kendo dos had made a reappearance, and the redhead launched into an irritated rant about how no, they hadn't, and what a shitty prank that was to pull on Ikkaku's birthday, of all days, and how he had his suspicions that it was the work of the Table Tennis Club -- but not Hanatarou, of course ("Of course," Rukia agreed) -- because as a rule they tended to be small and sneaky and grudge-holding little bastards, despite the fact that all of those jock straps last year had been respectfully _new_. . .

Across the room, a table of students cleared, with the exception of one. Izuru felt the knot in his stomach tighten uncomfortably.

Alone and unsmiling, Gin lifted a clump of spaghetti with his chopsticks, then allowed it to slip back into his bowl, lightly spattering the table with sauce. It was a singularly pathetic sight.

"Eto. . .excuse me," Izuru mumbled, rising and gathering up his tray.

"Kira?" Renji called after the younger boy. Receiving no reply, he turned to look questioningly at Rukia. "Was it something we said?"

The small girl only shrugged and devoured the head off of a bunny-shaped onigiri.

* * *

"No one likes you," Izuru declared, dropping his tray on the table and taking a seat on the bench opposite Gin. "I mean, I know Matsumoto-san does, but I get the feeling there's story there that I don't know about -- but if there are any others, I haven't seen them or heard about them or met them yet. And I can understand why, kind of. You freak people out, whether you mean to or not. But even if you're trying to, you don't freak _me_ out -- not enough, anyway, for me to write you off right off the bat. I'm not. . .I don't like not liking things just because other people don't, or think I shouldn't. That's not something I want to do anymore."

He paused, waiting for a response. Gin took his time in giving one, his squint level and unreadable. When at last he did speak, a wary "So?" was all he offered.

"So. . .I'm sorry, if I hurt your feelings earlier, if you were honestly just trying to be friendly. And I'd like you to be my host again. --Please."

Gin sighed at length and reached up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "I dunno, Kira-han. . ."

"Call me--" The blond hesitated, swallowing. ". . .call me Izuru."

A hopeful smile began to curl at the corners of Gin's mouth. "Izuru-chan?"

Izuru flinched. His eyes narrowed. "Izuru-kouhai," he compromised.

"Uh-uh," Gin shook his head, and for a moment Izuru thought he was refusing the request, until he added, "Too long. I s'pose just Izuru'll hafta do."

"Arigatou, Ichimaru-senpai."

"Gin."

Izuru smiled, openly, for the first time in weeks. He nodded once, and failed to notice the pinkening of his own cheeks as he amended, "Arigatou. . .Gin."

* * *

Gin didn't need to show him to his fifth period class, which was again with Tousen-sensei, but he walked him there regardless, tailed by a very confused trio of Shuuhei, Renji and Rukia. The silver-haired boy actually proved to be a remarkably competent host, providing commentary as they walked, pointing out students or faculty members and elucidating on their various eccentricities, both secret and publicly known.

"That fine-lookin' wall o'flesh over yonder's the Oomaeda heirs," he said, gesturing to a diamond-encrusted quartet clustered at the southeast corner of the quad.

"You mean like the jewelry company?" Izuru asked.

"I mean. The oldest brother, Marechiyo, he's captain of the sumo team, but he's only there by virtue of payin' off his rivals to throw their matches 'gainst him."

"What about _him?_" Izuru nodded toward an oddly dusty-looking, gargantuan man with a handlebar mustache and tightly braided hair. "What's he teach, Shop? Proper Steroid Usage?"

Gin shaded his eyes and followed Izuru's line of sight. "Tsukabishi-sensei? Home Ec. Makes really good mikasa, an' rumor has it he can juggle five wedding cakes at once without losin' any of the little people on top."

"Huh."

"An' this here busy lil' bee's Fong Shaolin," he said of a short, dark-haired girl, whose carriage could only be described as "fierce," as she drew near. "If ya watch Sasuke, ya might've seen her brother Cato bite it in the third stage of the last competition."

"Eat shit, Ichimaru," she snapped, pushing past them into the social sciences building.

* * *

Civics felt like church.

Tousen-sensei stood like a priest behind a podium at the front of the class, intoning the sins and virtues of direct democracy with an implicit but distinctively personal coloring. He condemned political corruption alongside describing it, and drew no lines between the self-interest of a single leader and the mob rule of a proletarian republic, conveying the necessity of an objective power that could not accurately be placed as either god or machine. Izuru could easily see how Renji -- or anyone else, for that matter -- could encounter difficulty with the class: Tousen had no interest in the beliefs of his pupils, but sought only a regurgitation of his own. He encouraged agreement over argument, providing that agreement was in accordance with his principles, which seemed to favor a perplexing and paradoxical concept of totalitarian apathy. In this way he reminded Izuru of Kurotsuchi-sensei, but unlike the chemistry teacher, Tousen tempered the harshness of his views with an unplaceable charisma and an almost excessively echt treasuring of peace.

"Yeah," Gin concurred on their way to room 906 between fifth and sixth periods, when Izuru shared with him his opinions, "he's a bit deluded, but what else can ya really expect from a guy who's never been able ta see where he's goin'?"

They parted ways at Kuchiki-sensei's door, and Renji gave Izuru a strange look as he followed him inside the classroom.

"What?" the blond asked, but Renji only shook his head and slid into a seat at the front of the class.

Izuru approached the teacher's desk, schedule in hand, and prepared to explain for the fourth time that day that he had just transferred to the academy, and where was he supposed to sit, please? to the bowed head of glossy black hair and an efficiently inditing pen before him. He softly cleared his throat, and Kuchiki Byakuya-sensei looked up.

Ah.

Izuru opened his mouth, only to find he'd gone alarmingly mute. He glanced at Renji, who had tugged the tie out of his hair so that his face was now concealed by a curtain of bright cherry red.

_Ah._

"May I help you?"

Wordlessly, Izuru pushed the schedule in front of the man's face. Kuchiki skimmed it momentarily, returned it, then produced a textbook from one of the drawers in his desk and handed it to his newest pupil.

"Third row, second seat."

"D-domo," Izuru thanked him, and hurried to occupy the empty desk behind Renji's. He prodded the redhead in the back with the corner of his text. Renji twisted around halfway.

"One percent?" Izuru whispered.

Renji reddened, said nothing, and turned back to face the board.

As a response, it was more than sufficient.

* * *

After history, the school day drew to a close, and Renji and Izuru waited for Gin and an ill-at-ease Rukia, who also shared a sixth period class.

The dark-haired girl excused herself quickly, mussitating something about having a lot of homework she wanted to get started on before gymnastics practice, and Renji shot Gin an accusatory look the fox-faced boy intentionally failed to catch. The remaining three made their way once again to the parking lot, with intent to take a shortcut through the side gate and walk home if they couldn't find a ride.

"Oh, good, they're here," said Renji, spotting Iba, Yumichika, and the mobile party shop that was Ikkaku across the lot; and then-- "Aw, shit, _he's_ here," he revised, spotting the nondescript black van the other three were closing in on.

"Who?" Izuru asked.

His answer came in the form of a pair of heavily booted feet dropping out of the van's open driver's side door and onto the asphalt. They were attached to a pair of long, long, long legs clad in ripped black jeans that grew into one of the largest leather-jacketed torsos Izuru had seen in real life. There was a young-but-old aspect to the giant's sharp-boned and scarred face which, in combination with his size -- made only taller by the stiff black liberty spikes crowning his head -- rendered his age indeterminate.

The overall word for his appearance would have been "impressive," if it hadn't been for the bundle of soft pink cotton attached to one impossibly broad shoulder.

"Ahh, Zaraki-san," Izuru heard Yumichika croon as the trio drew closer. "You have my order?"

"What, you think I'd welch on ya?" the mountainous man said in a voice like a landslide, gravelly and deep. "'course I got it. Even saved ya the trouble of gift-wrappin' it." He dug a small ball like a party favor wrapped in brown paper out of a jacket pocket and passed it to Yumi with all the finesse of a sleight-of-hand trick.

Yumichika in turn passed it to Madarame ("Happy birthday, Ikka-kun!"), who grinned and slipped it discreetly into his bookbag.

"Seventeen-five, yes?" the androgyne enquired, flipping open his wallet.

"Twenty."

Yumichika arched an eyebrow, but counted out twenty thousand yen and forked it over without hesitation. "Your prices have gone up."

"Yeah, well, so's the price of fuckin' diapers."

And Izuru realized then just what exactly that pink bundle _was_ that was cradled in one of the massive punk's arms.

Yumichika cooed and plucked the infant from an unresisting Zaraki. The blanket fell away to reveal flossy, cotton-candy-pink hair and intensely rosy cheeks puffed out in a happy smile.

"And how is Yachiru-chan? Still teething?"

"Tch. Like a goddamn shark. If she don't end up with three rows to justify all the screamin' she does at night. . ."

"Maa, Zaraki-san," Gin drawled, walking up to smooth a hand over the baby's unruly curls, "better to be the wolf than the obaba in its belly, ne?"

Zaraki fixed him with a slightly puzzled look. "Ichimaru. Didn't expect to see you here today."

"What can I say?" Gin shrugged. "I'm all unpredictable-like."

"Che. Right."

"A. . .ano. . ." The seven males turned in unison toward the source of the tentative voice.

It was the pretty T.A. from Kurotsuchi-sensei's class. She blushed at the sudden attention, eyes shyly downcast.

Ikkaku distanced himself slightly from the group. "Nemu-san?"

"Sumimasen, Madarame-san," she murmured, giving a small bow. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I. . .I didn't have a chance to give this to you earlier."

She held out a small stuffed monkey wearing a black eye mask and cape.

"It reminded me of you."

Iba stifled a snorting laugh behind his hand. "Yeah, there's a definite resemblance."

"Shut the fuck up!" Ikkaku hissed at him, glaring, his ears going red as the markings around his eyes.

Nemu's blush deepened. Even so, she slipped the first two fingers of her right hand into the little hidden pockets in the monkey's hands, pulled its body back, angled it up and in Ikkaku's direction, and released it. It slingshotted into the air with a shrill simian shriek, and Ikkaku caught it with ease.

"It makes noise?!" Renji gawped. "Shit. I'm actually kinda jealous."

Ikkaku glowered at him sidelong, then looked again at Nemu, anger disippating. "Thanks. I really--"

"Nemu? Nemu!" Kurotsuchi-sensei's distant, nasal voice pierced the air like breaking glass. "Useless girl, where are you?"

Nemu's eyes grew wide with panic. "I must go. Happy birthday, Madarame-san," she said quickly, and bowed once more before rushing to obey her demanding teacher.

"How many times have I told you not to keep me waiting?"

"Moushiwake arimasen, Otou-sama."

Izuru blinked. Otou-sama? . . .ouch. Although the girl's permissiveness suddenly made a great deal more sense.

"What were you doing over there with those Neanderthals?"

"I--"

"Nevermind, we haven't time for your feeble excuses. There's too much work to be done. Come along. Hurry up."

"Yes, Otou-sama."

Ikkaku's grip on the stuffed super-monkey turned his knuckles a xanthous white as he watched them disappear around the corner of the cafeteria building.

"Kurotsuchi-cocksucker," he spat. "Why does she just. . ." The question dissolved into a disgusted sigh and a shake of his head. He tucked the girl's gift into the pocket of his blazer and rejoined his friends.

"Oi, Ikkaku, can I play with your monkey?"

Ikkaku grabbed Renji by his sloppily knotted necktie and hauled him close. "No, you can't. And don't ever ask me shit like that again."

Renji leered suggestively and huffed a breath in the bald boy's face. Ikkaku shoved him away in revulsion.

"And brush your goddamn teeth! Your breath reeks!"

Iba and Zaraki both guffawed as the redhead staggered to the pavement, but the lightening of the mood was short-lived.

"Zaraki Kenpachi." Tousen-sensei held the handle of a harness wrapped around a large, wolfish mutt that could only be the hitherto unseen Sajin. He was in the company of an attractive woman in a nurse's uniform whose long, dark hair hung in a thick braid down her back. "Have you not been warned repeatedly that you are not to set foot on Seireitei Academy grounds?"

In Yumichika's arms, Yachiru stretched out her arms toward the two faculty members with a gibberish exclamation of "Rets!"

The nurse's blue eyes flashed briefly at the infant, and Yumi shushed the child with a soft bounce. Zaraki's expression hardened into a look Izuru never wanted to have directed at himself. The thug hoisted himself into the driver's seat of the van.

"Ain't settin' foot anywhere, Sensei," he addressed the blind man. "But then, noticin' somethin' like that's a little beyond your capabilities, ain't it?"

Tousen was unmoved by the affront. Calmly, he removed a cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. "I am certain the authorities will beg to differ. But by all means, if your only crime is trespassing and you believe that they will side with you on the matter, you're welcome to remain where you are."

Zaraki bristled -- Izuru could have sworn he saw the spikes of the punk's hair raise like hackles -- and his gaze shifted to Yumichika, who nodded once and opened the van's side door. The effeminate boy gently deposited Yachiru into the child carseat strapped to one of the backseats and buckled her into it.

"That's a mighty generous offer, Sensei," Zaraki rumbled, "but for the moment I got better places to be."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," said Tousen.

"Tch." After a cursory check of Yachiru's carseat to make sure the baby was securely nestled within it, he shut both doors and twisted the key in the ignition. "See you assholes around. Enjoy yourself, Ikkaku."

"Aa."

"Mata ne, Zaraki-san."

"Bye-bye!"

The van left the parking lot, and the group started for Yumi's Audi.

". . .Madarame Ikkaku."

They paused.

"Yes sir, Tousen-sensei, sir?"

"I trust that Zaraki's parting remark was not in reference to anything specific?"

"No sir, Tousen-sensei, sir. He was just wishin' me a happy birthday."

"Good. It is a comfort to know that the Kendo Club will not suffer from your absence should Unohana-sensei deem it necessary to verify that your weekends are not wasted in too deep a state of relaxation."

"No sir, Tousen-sensei, sir. Only the cleanest, most lucid of fun times for me."

"Come, Kaname-san," the nurse spoke for the first time, her soft voice imbued with unwavering pleasantness as she rested a coaxing hand on the blind man's arm. "I'm sure these boys have homework that needs to be gotten to, just as we have tea that must be drunk before it turns cold."

"Indeed, Retsu-san. Sayonara, children. Be good."

"Always, Tousen-sensei, sir," Gin affirmed, injecting his smile into his voice. "Always."

* * *

"Gin?"

"Izuru?"

They sat on the third row bench seat of the SUV, with their heads together to better hear one another over the thumping bass of Yumi's sound system. Izuru could smell on Gin the faintly antiseptic scent of the soap Aizen bought in bulk, underlying the tinge of a warmer, spicier cologne.

"What did Zaraki-san mean when he said he hadn't expected to see you at school today?"

"It's Friday," Gin said smoothly. "I'm unreliable on Fridays."

"Oh." Izuru rubbed his teeth together pensively, realized he was doing it, stopped. "Were you serious when you said. . ."

"When I said. . .?"

". . .nothing. Nevermind."

He expected Gin to press the issue, to try and wheedle out the rest of the question with Maas and Naas and assorted methods of inappropriate prodding; but Izuru felt the ball slip from his fingers to drop with the subject at the fox-faced boy's acquiescent "Okay." How could a person with such grabby fingers be so difficult to get a handle on?

"What about Zaraki-san?"

"What about 'im?"

"Well, who is he? Just a. . .a drug dealer?"

Gin shrugged. "Sometimes."

Yumichika turned the stereo down.

"Zaraki-san is a general purveyor of difficult-to-obtain goods," the androgyne elaborated. "Pharmaceuticals, firearms, the latest issue of Italian Vogue. . ."

"He used to be one of us, for a minute or two," added Renji, "but Ichimaru's the only one who was around then."

Izuru looked at Gin, who sat back in his seat with the lazily superior aura of one well-informed.

"'bout five years ago," he said. "Everyone reckons his proficiency exam scores were a fluke, though -- the computer messed up scorin' 'em or somethin'."

"So why didn't they just retest him?"

"He didn't stick around long enough for them ta try. Got expelled from Seireitei for fightin', didn't get along with Sousuke ta begin with, so he left. Hung around Rukongai, though. Even if his scores were flukes, he ain't stupid -- figured out real quick that respectable avenues are always more lucrative than mean streets."

"What about the little girl, Yachiru? Where's her mother?"

Tension strung the air in the front seat with invisible wires.

"Tch," Ikkaku snorted. "Where indeed. Bitch up and hauled ass with some junkie fuck not long after Yachiru was born. Told Zaraki she was his, dumped the kid and ran."

"Then he might not be the father."

"No, he's her father," Yumi averred. "Even if a DNA test were to say otherwise, Zaraki Kenpachi is Yachiru-chan's father."

The rest of the ride home was silent, save for Yumi's American rap music, which was eventually turned back up and occasionally accompanied by Ikkaku's dashboard percussion and Renji's heavily accented karaoke.

Back at Pure Souls, Aizen met them at the door.

"So," he asked Izuru, "how did it go?"

"It was. . .enlightening."

"Ah, good," Aizen approved. "_In regione caecorum rex est luscus._"

Izuru's blood stuttered in his veins, chilling as he caught a note of the familiar in the Latin phrase. "'Among the blind, the squinter rules.'"

Aizen looked impressed. "Close. 'In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.' What you're thinking of is the variant _inter caecos regnat strabus,_ but they're both in the same passage of the Adagia. Have you studied Erasmus?"

"Not really. It's just something I heard, a long time ago."

"Really? Good memory. There's snacks in the kitchen if you're hungry, and as it's Gin and Iba's turn to cook tonight, I would advise spoiling your dinner as much as possible."

That wouldn't be a problem, Izuru knew, but he kept the thought to himself that he already felt rather a few drops poisoned.

* * *

_Ziggy played guitar, jammin' good with Weird and Gilly  
__And the Spiders from Mars__  
He played it left hand, but made it too far  
__Became the special man, then we were Ziggy's band_

_Ziggy really sang, screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo__  
Like some cat from Japan__  
He could lick 'em by smiling, he could leave 'em to hang  
Came on so loaded, man, well hung and snow white tan_

_So where were the Spiders while the fly tried to break our bones?__  
Just a beer light to guide us  
So we bitched about his fans and should we crush his sweet hands?_

_Ziggy played for time, jivin' us that we were voodoo__  
The kids were just crass__  
He was the nazz, with god-given ass  
He took it all too far, but boy could he play guitar_

_Makin' love with his ego, Ziggy sucked up into his mind  
Like __**a leper messiah  
**When the kids had killed the man, I had to break up the band_

_Ziggy played guitar. . . _-- David Bowie, "Ziggy Stardust"

* * *

**A/N:** _Yes, the whole song. Because of the chapter length, & because I can, & because it screams "GIN!" to me. _

_I didn't intend to take so long in updating, but this chapter just sort of trickled slowly out between my outlining future scenes, and I couldn't find an appropriate place to divide it into smaller, more timely bits -- this one sets up most of the dominoes, so I really wanted to show the whole day all in one go & get it out of the way so that I can work on the actual plot. But at least the wordcount makes up for the wait? Nearly 22 pages, booyah. I hope it was as entertaining to read as it was to write._

_The quote Nanao has programmed for Shunsui's username is from the movie Real Genius, & Ikkaku's monkey can be purchased at ThinkGeek dot com, under Geek Toys: Cube Warfare. Yes, I window shopped for a character's birthday gift. Yes, I am painfully aware of how lamely anal that makes me out to be. _

_If Rukia comes across as being a bit OOC in regard to her attitude towards Byakuya, I figured the scales between bitterness and gratitude might be tipped more in favor of the former had she been inducted into the clan before Hisana's death, & subsequently remained there under the impression that she was considered an unwanted obligation. She & her nii-sama have a lot to resolve._

_Said nii-sama was supposed to have more of an introduction as well, but I figured Renji's would be the more appropriate point of view from which to expound upon his character, so he's still on the back burner for the moment._

_Anyway, I think I've rambled enough down here. & up there. Eesh. THANK YOU, patient readers & reviewers. You all make an author feel fairly awesome. :D_


	6. Me and the Dragon

**VI. Me and the Dragon**

* * *

By the following week, Abarai Renji had grown well used to sharing his room, two of his classes, most of his meals and, by default, a good chunk of his free time with Kira Izuru. He liked the kid. Sure, it was plain to anyone that he was depressed -- he slept too much, ate even less than finicky, birdlike Isane, and when left to his own devices, tended to be generally mopey -- and he would probably remain that way for some time. Never having had a proper family, Renji couldn't begin to imagine what it would be like to lose one; but he could remember all too clearly the sucker-punched feeling he'd gotten when Rukia had been adopted by her sister and brother-in-law, and if that was only a fraction of what the younger boy was going through, then Renji really, really didn't envy him.

Even so, Renji was pleased to find that Kira was far from being a lost cause. He seemed to have more fortitude than the redhead would have credited to anyone with the kind of upbringing his clothing labels hinted at, and he seemed to know that getting on with things was just as important as, if not more so than, getting over them. The kid was smart in more ways than merely those valued by Aizen and the Academy (and in those ways he was more than smart enough), although he didn't make out like he realized it.

The only instance in which that intelligence stubbornly refused to apply itself was in regard to Ichimaru Gin, who had stuck fast to the blond like a spur to a sock and showed no signs of retracting his barbs anytime soon. To say Renji didn't like it would be a vast understatement. Thanks to Kira, Renji had been made to endure a steady diet of Ichimaru's presence for longer than he had in all his three and a half years at Pure Souls. Gin was with them at lunch, which made Rukia distant (something that was quickly becoming intolerable), and had become a daily fixture in Yumichika's SUV during rides to and from school (Yumi, the weirdo, actually _liked_ his smile -- said he had beautiful straight white teeth). He did his homework (or at least made a show of scribbling things down on paper) with them in the library after school when Renji didn't have kendo practice, and when he wasn't making a show of fondling Rangiku simply because he _could,_ he was pawing at his kouhai with little, seemingly innocent touches that the boy obviously wasn't comfortable with but refused to speak up against. The one time Renji had pointed this out, the silver-haired boy had whined that it wasn't nothin', an' he'd stop if Izuru asked him to, but sometimes people jus' needed ta be touched, even if they didn't know they did.

Renji's head had ached for the rest of the day from the palm drive to the back of his skull Rangiku had given him when he'd made the comment that that sounded like a rapist's mentality.

Later, Kira had told him not to worry about it, that he could take care of himself. Renji wasn't sure he believed him, but he'd let it go just the same. If Kira was the type that had to make his own mistakes to learn from 'em, then Renji would wait for him to figure out Ichimaru was a creep all on his own. But he wouldn't abandon the boy. The last thing Kira would need, once he got sick of Fox-Face's games or Ichimaru grew bored with messing with him, would be an I-told-you-so and another back turned in his direction.

So, Renji decided, he could hang, and wait it out -- how long could it last, really? -- and he would be there when the kid got his head on right. He liked him, after all.

But he would still say -- and savor -- the I-told-you-so.

Today, however, was not that day. In fact, at the moment, Renji's thoughts couldn't have been further from the slight blond seated behind him in Kuchiki Byakuya-sensei's advanced Japanese history class.

Renji liked girls. He was sure of it. Rangiku would have delivered a hell of a lot more than a blow to his head -- oh a _blow_ to his _head!_ -- if she knew the sort of thoughts that used to race through his mind while he was in the shower, or in bed late at night before the other side of his room had become occupied. Isane, too. Fong Shaolin would have probably cut something -- _everything_ -- off, and Ikkaku would have cheered her on, if he didn't join in wholeheartedly on behalf of the Kurotsuchi girl's honor. It wasn't that Renji was a pervert -- not once had he reflected that Momo could be so charming and obliging, or Kiyone so _enthusiastic_ -- eugh, no. Pass him the brain bleach, please; they were practically his _sisters,_ for crying out loud, and his baby sisters at that.

Renji shuddered.

It was much the same, these days, with Rukia. They were as close as any two people could hope to be, and once, when they had been younger, when Rukia had been taken from him and he'd been a chaotic ball of confusion and resentment and happiness for his best friend and loneliness that he'd been left behind _again,_ he'd been of a mind that his feelings for her might have run into something of more depth and maturity than he'd previously considered. It had been jealousy, sheer, blind jealousy that had first drawn his eyes to focus on Kuchiki Byakuya, the man with the wealth and power to not only uproot the cornerstone of Renji's meager joy, but to give her so much more than Renji could ever hope to offer. . .

He wasn't like the others at Pure Souls, almost all of whom had been specifically sought out by Aizen to be a part of the foster home's gifted ranks. He'd always tested well, but that wasn't enough. He'd worked his ass off with the sole intention of being good enough to get in here -- of being good enough to force his way through the same doors that Kuchiki-sensei was privy to enter, and to climb the same ladder on top of which the corporate prince had been born, in order to be able to provide just as much and more for the people Renji loved to keep them happy and protected and _close._

When exactly those desires had shifted from one Kuchiki to another was a mystery to the seventeen-year-old. He didn't understand it. He liked _girls._ But maybe that was the problem -- Kuchiki-sensei was. . ._pretty._ Not handsome, not comely, not attractive. He was absolutely fucking _beautiful,_ in a way a man was never meant to be.

Renji had looked down on him for it at first, or tried to, despite the differing heights of a boy of twelve and a man of twenty-four. He'd looked down, but hadn't been able to look away. Of course he hadn't -- the arrogant prick and his wife had simply waltzed in and taken Renji's Rukia away from him, the one semi-constant in his life that wasn't and had never been a struggle.

And he'd done it so dispassionately, as though he didn't even care whether they got the girl or not, which made Renji even more determined to step up and show him that Rukia was worth fighting for, and that even a stray dog could shoulder his way into the show and make off with the prize under everyone's noses while they were too distracted fawning over the purebreds to detect him. Renji had been practically frothing at the mouth with eagerness to prove himself -- but that eagerness ended up being precisely the thing that had caught him by the tail and gotten him all turned around in his goals.

Stray dogs never could abide being muzzled. He'd managed to contain himself until he'd actually taken his proficiency exams, but he'd slipped his lead before the results were in. Rukia had been ecstatic when he'd told her he was petitioning for a transfer to Pure Souls and the Academy -- ecstatic enough that she even gushed the news to her mostly-estranged sister. Did her sister's husband know? Yes, Nii-sama had overheard, but so what, who cares? He didn't matter.

. . .Renji?

And Renji had swallowed, and found enough of his voice to agree -- but not enough to rebuke her that yes, Byakuya mattered. The museums of fine art and natural history mattered. The library and the opera house and the gargantuan glass corporate castle in downtown Rukongai all mattered a hell of a lot -- but not as much as the possibility, however remote, that the familial heir to those institutions may have taken it upon himself to intervene on behalf of Renji's acceptance into Seireitei and its connected foster care facility, if his dying wife had wished to see her only living blood relative made as happy as she could arrange.

Originally, Renji had watched him for clues that would point to that potential interference. He vigilantly took note of the man's every gesture whenever he occasioned to pass him in the halls, always on the lookout for any sign of acknowledgment or appraisal that would hint at even a minuscule interest in the worthiness of his investment.

Nothing.

In fact, Kuchiki-sensei gave not the slightest indication that he was aware of Renji's existence at all.

It should have been reassuring. It was not.

It was infuriating, and in the glaring heat of that anger, Renji's watchfulness only intensified -- but the nature of his hunt had changed.

Just what the hell made Kuchiki Byakuya so special, anyway? --Aside from the money, and his looks, and the money? And his looks. . .

What was it, that goddamn regal bearing? It could be achieved by girls in charm school with books balanced on their heads. Was it his hands, understatedly articulate and well-manicured? Yumichika's nail tech could produce the same effect.

His hair, then -- groomed to perfection, black and shining as a raven's feathers (maybe he and Rangiku used the same conditioner) -- or his eyes, dark like smoke and just as difficult to read, fringed by the sort of thick, long lashes Rukia herself admitted to envying.

His mouth, thin and soft-looking, the upper lip just slightly fuller than the lower, like a bow or a baby's or a doll's. His skin, moon-pale and perfect (and utterly lacking, Renji noticed, so much as a hint of smile lines). His grace, all smooth, fluid motions and nearly robotic precision, as though he were afraid to truly _move._

In the end, Renji reasoned with far less spite than he had started out with, Kuchiki Byakuya was just the same as everyone else -- ultimately nothing more than meat and blood and breath and organs all wrapped up in a suit of skin, however flawlessly pressed that suit happened to be. In the end, he was only human. A man who had become a widower at the age of twenty-five. A scholar who learned and taught without needing, practically, to do either.

Renji wasn't an idiot. Wildly oblivious at times, maybe, but not an idiot, and most definitely not naive, not when it came to sussing out a person's true character. He knew very well that an angelic face in no way guaranteed a matching heart.

He also knew the value of trusting his instincts. Renji had been chasing Kuchiki-sensei for so long that the man's scent was all but buried in his nose to the point where he had begun to equate it with air, and maybe he'd just gotten used to it, but. . .he didn't find it unpleasant. Very much the opposite.

And now Rukia's face, although still in the foreground of his thoughts, had fuzzed out of focus as he looked past her to another; and one by one, the receptive Rangikus and insatiable Isanes had been cut from the footage of his fantasies to have their soft-shaped places usurped by stark, elegant angles, and their gold and silver tresses shadowed by strands of sleek jet.

Renji had resisted it at first, tried to delude himself into believing he had caught Kyouraku-sensei's well-documented infatuation with Seireitei's bookish and austere librarian. Even Yumichika would have been preferable, for no male was ever faulted for giving the epicene boy a lingering once-over (Iba had even spent the better part of his first day at the Academy flirting with him, completely unaware of his true gender until all was quite literally revealed in the locker room of their shared gym class).

But Ise-sensei, for all her stark prudery, was still too small, and her eyes too bright; and Yumi's delightful deep purple and cream, while appropriately dark and pale, were still too rich to pass off as anything resembling Renji's monochromatic quarry.

It _had_ been Yumi, however, who'd found him lying lakeside at Kasumiouji Park one night this past spring, following his acceptance -- or at least acknowledgment -- of his predicament, staring at the moon and listening to the Cure play softly from an old boombox he'd haggled down to half-price from a local pawn shop.

"How very Say Anything... of you," the androgyne remarked, sitting neatly in the grass on the other side of the stereo.

Renji made some non-committal noise of agreement. He hadn't questioned how Yumi knew. The boy had gaydar that could sniff out the bi-curiosity in a conservative troglobite residing at the deepest levels of a veritable cave system of closets.

The song changed. A breeze picked up the last of the ume and sakura blossoms of that year, dusting Renji's view with pale lavender and pink. He sighed.

"Life sucks."

"Considering your plight, it might be wise for you to word things a little more prudently."

"Tch."

"I commend your taste, at least. He _is_ fairly magnificent-looking."

"That's high praise, coming from you."

"The highest." Yumi fiddled with blade of grass. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Renji shrugged, not taking his eyes off the moon. "Fuck, nothing. What _can_ I do?"

"Lots of things. Chocolates, flowers, make him a mixtape -- one that does not include this song," he added, as Robert Smith wailed something about the stench of a love for a younger meat.

Renji spluttered. "I can't just -- I haven't even gotten into his class yet! And besides, he had a _wife,_ Yumi. Kuchiki-sensei's not. . .let's just say I'm not his type."

"Well, if you're going to go by _that_ logic, then Rukia-chan _is._"

"That's not even funny. And you know what I meant."

"Yes, I know. And you're wrong."

"I. . ." Renji blinked, then propped himself up on his forearms to look wide-eyed at his effete friend. "What did you say?"

Violet eyes rolled. "Oh please, Abarai-kun. You don't have to be. . .well, _me,_ to see that Kuchiki-sensei is a man of, shall we say, negotiable conventions."

Renji struggled to process this information. If it had come from anyone but Yumi, he'd have immediately dismissed it as bullshit -- for all Byakuya's physically feminine characteristics, Renji had yet to witness the man act in any way contrary to the normative patterns of his established sex.

"I don't meant he's secretly flaming," Yumi scoffed, seeming to read the redhead's mind. "One _can_ possess homosexual inclinations without embodying the stereotype, a fact of which you yourself are a depressingly obstinate example."

"But. . .but he was _married._ To a _woman._"

"'Was' being the key word. Just because you play soccer _now_ doesn't mean you can't switch to kendo next term -- which, I don't know if you've ever had the chance to inspect the trophies in Yamamoto-kouchou's office, but apparently Kuchiki-sensei was quite the avid young swordsman when he was a student at Seireitei."

Renji frowned, finding it difficult to imagine the perpetually pristine history teacher wielding a shinai like some dragon-slaying fairytale hero, sweaty and panting and mussed and. . .

Renji gulped.

Maybe it wasn't so difficult to imagine after all.

He sat up, crossed his legs and leaned forward to rest his elbows against his knees, hoping that the draping of his t-shirt would sufficiently obscure his lap.

Yumi smirked, but thankfully had the good taste not to comment.

". . .he's like _twelve years_ older than me," Renji said after a moment. "I'm only. . .I mean, in his eyes I'm just some stupid kid his sister-in-law knows. If he's ever even noticed me _that_ much."

"Isn't that the very mindset of his you've been fighting against all along?" Yumi pointed out.

"Well, yeah, kind of, but--"

"But what? You're not going to give up trying to surpass him, are you? You've already come this far."

"That's different, Yumi! _This_ is different! Surpassing someone and seducing them are _not_ the same things!"

Yumichika shrugged. "If you say so. But this new goal of yours, Abarai-kun, it's not any further beyond your reach than the former one -- it's merely a little to the left of where you were previously aiming."

"It's illegal, is what it is."

"Actually, fifteen is the lawful age of consent in this prefecture."

"Yeah, between consenting minors."

Yumi brushed the comment aside like a bothersome fly. "Semantics."

"So what, you think I should make a pass at him? At Kuchiki Byakuya?" Renji's incredulity verged on scorn. "The guy probably sleeps in a suit, Yumi. To hear Rukia talk about him, he probably starches his fundoshi."

"Ah, yes, speaking of which -- what exactly _does_ Rukia-chan think of this little shift in your obsessive priorities?"

Renji's expression hardened. "She doesn't know. And she never will. And no one _else_ is gonna find out about it either, _right,_ Yumichika?"

"Oh, I can't guarantee that -- but for my part, if it is your wish, Abarai-kun, I will keep mum."

Renji snorted, "Good," and flopped back down onto the grass.

They were silent for a few moments, then Yumi sighed.

"You know, Abarai-kun, I don't normally indulge in the vulgar double entendres of which you and Ikkaku and Tetsu-san are so fond, but if Kuchiki-sensei does indeed starch his undergarments, imagine the residual stiffness that could remain beneath them. . ."

Renji groaned.

No, a pervert Renji was not -- but he was very much a teenager.

Seven months had passed since that conversation with Yumichika, and as far as Renji could tell, the other boy had kept his word, and Renji's secret.

Renji himself wasn't sure what had possessed him to admit his not-so-hetero leanings -- _leaning_ -- to Kira so soon after meeting him. He'd been trying to make the miserable boy feel more at ease, sure, but there was other common ground that could have been covered. Renji wasn't even certain how common the ground he'd chosen _was,_ really -- whenever the topic of sex came up in their group, the sheer decency of Kira's personality made Renji sort of want to pat him on the head and tell him he'd find out what the grown-ups were talking about when he was older -- which was ridiculous, as Kira was barely a year and a half his junior, and Renji could remember all too vividly the mental waysides _his_ mind had frequently fallen to at that age. He still revisited them quite often. But Kira. . .

Kira just seemed so trusting, and instantly so worthy of trust, like a miniature Ukitake-sensei, or. . .or an anti-Gin, which made the shine Ichimaru had taken to him all the more disconcerting.

That, though, was a subject for a different hour. The one at hand, thought Renji, was already thoroughly stimulating.

He'd been accepted, of course, into Kuchiki-sensei's class. If he hadn't, he thought he might have fallen on his shinai in defeat (Ikkaku had questioned him only cursorily about his sudden decision to trade a goalie's net for a bougu set, as it was obvious to the bald boy which was the superior sport. He'd said only that it was about damn time Renji had come to his senses and stopped wasting his time playing with balls -- and he hadn't understood at all why Yumi had found that so fuckin' funny).

Renji had studied. God, how he'd studied. His manga collection became an avid accumulator of dust. Instead of comics, he'd brought tomes to Rukia's gymnastics meets, and tore his dry eyes away from the even dryer text only to watch her solo routines. He'd exhausted the historical texts of five libraries -- the ones at Pure Souls and the Academy, and the public locals of Rukongai, Karakura, and Hueco Mundo. He'd studied at lunchtime, and between kendo practice and dinner, and between dinner and bed, and sometimes between bed and dawn. He'd studied through his weekend shifts at Silver Dragonfly Glasses Store in Las Noches Plaza, and sank more than one minuscule paycheck into replacing the library books he'd ruined reading in the shower. Hell, he'd even been fired for studying, when his manager had found him passed out amidst boxes of Oakleys in the stock room, face-down in a waterlogged copy of the Nihon Shoki.

Goddamn right he'd been accepted into Kuchiki-sensei's class. The surprising thing had been unearthing a hitherto unknown interest in the actual subject of Japanese history -- its feudal era in particular, and especially the parts pertaining to warfare. Shonen Jump, he'd decided, had nothing on shogunates, and it thrilled him to trace the roots of his new sport back to their samurai origins.

It also introduced him to the concept of shudou.

The Beautiful Way. The Way of the Young. The taking of a novice under a seasoned wing and schooling him in all things -- battle and honor, beauty and art, and love.

Love of women, it ruled, feminized men; but love between two warriors compounded their strength. Renji couldn't help but wonder how thoroughly Byakuya's own studies had delved into the tradition, if to him it was merely another fact to be memorized and filed away for the sake of trivial knowledge, or if his interest in kenjutsu had left in it a space weighted with the unfulfilment of some two hundred fifty years' disapprobation of the practice. Not that Renji suspected Byakuya of harboring any depraved desire for either an older or more youthful partner, but the sheer level of such a connection was. . .enticing, he supposed, in the same way a girl might sift through the scenarios of romance novels to bejewel her daydreams. What was more, Renji knew from experience twice over that, if one's attention was devoted to a specific thing for any substantial length of time, the seeds of that preoccupation tended to germinate the most unexpected of flowers.

Unexpected, like Kuchiki-sensei's august baritone turning Renji's name into a silken command of _Stay_ when the school bell rang to signal the end of sixth period. Wished for, striven for, but somehow still unexpected, like what was to come in the minutes immediately thereafter.

Kira looked at him questioningly, and Renji gestured with a nod that the boy was to go on without him. Heart pounding -- he'd been singled out, singled out, _singled out,_ and for what, for what, _for what? _-- he waited until the rest of the students had all filed out of the classroom before approaching his teacher's desk.

"Abarai Renji," Byakuya said again, tapping a stack of ungraded essays into neatness and setting them at the corner of his desk -- precisely one inch, Renji noticed, from either edge.

"Yes sir?"

"I would like to discuss with you the quality of your work in this class."

Oh shit, oh shit, _oh shit. . ._

"My work?" Renji echoed. His blood froze. Had he screwed up somehow? Last week's essay -- had he misunderstood the topic? Gotten his dates wrong? Written "Karakura" instead of "Kamakura" and turned in five handwritten pages on the Mongol invasions of modern-day Western Tokyo?

He swallowed dryly, unable to shake a sudden image of a GothLoli Kublai Khan from his mind.

"Yes. It is--" _A form of torture to have to read, spittle upon the polished shoes of academia, proof of why history is never recorded by losers. . ._ "--exceptional."

"I can do bet-- . . .wait. It's. . .what?"

"Exceptional. Surpassing that which is the expected standard."

Renji's mouth worked fishlike in disbelief. "It's. . ."

Byakuya lifted an ebony eyebrow. "Need I repeat myself again?"

"Uh -- no sir," Renji said quickly. "Sorry. I just. . .you really think so? --Don't answer that. Stupid question, sorry. Um. Thank you?" _Shut up, shut up, shut **up**, you babbling idiot. . .!_

Byakuya only looked at him impassively for a moment, then stood. Renji jumped, startled. Byakuya frowned.

"Abarai, your work is not flawless," he said, slipping his dark gray suit jacket off the back of his chair and shrugging into it in one smooth, perfectly tailored motion. "Your grasp of proper grammar is dubious at best, and you are unable to elaborate on a topic without first coloring it with your own personal bias. Your word choice is occasionally poor, or the words themselves incorrectly used. You attempt to write at a level above that which you are currently capable."

Renji lowered his gaze, a cold, sick feeling swimming around in his gut at Kuchiki-sensei's words. He had surpassed the expected standard, all right -- he had failed spectacularly. But how? He'd completed every assignment -- shit, he'd actually _enjoyed_ most of them -- and yeah, he tested well, but Kuchiki-sensei didn't believe in ordinary tests. There was no room for guess work, no bubbling in of characters or filling blank lines with key words. His test questions were always in essay or paragraph form. They required elucidation; it had to be _proven_ that a student had absorbed not only superficial information, but that he or she understood its relevance both to the past and in the present. Parallels had to be drawn, reasons illustrated, patterns noted.

The grading system at Seireitei traveled along a linear path from Failed to Excellent, with Sufficient and Good being the defining landmarks between them, and Kuchiki Byakuya had never, _never_ passed anyone with a grade higher than Good.

Renji's work, up to now, had been Good -- or so he'd thought. He knew for a fact that the mark had been at the top of all the papers he'd received back -- he'd spent long enough staring at them, studying every elegant curve of Kuchiki-sensei's expensively-inked penmanship that deemed them so. They had been Good. . .but apparently not Good Enough.

"That said," Byakuya continued, sliding the stack of essays into his briefcase and snapping it shut, "you do still manage to demonstrate a clear understanding of the subject of history itself. You take care to explain your answers thoroughly, and on occasion even offer up the odd, oft-overlooked theory as to the motivations of the historical figures involved; and although your grasp of historical politics is not without its weaknesses, you are able at least to underpin your conceptions of what you believe to be their erroneous natures with evidence from the modern-day ideological constructs that have arisen from the ashes of their reform."

Oh.

Renji stood, dumbfounded. This was. . .praise?

Byakuya wound a pale cashmere scarf around his slim neck as he scrutinized his student, causing the redhead to feel rather like a term paper being double-checked for mistakes before its submission.

"I am as yet without a teacher's aid this year," he said eventually. "The position, should you be interested, is open to your acceptance."

It was a casually delivered invitation, as if he knew full well the absurdity of the thought that anyone would decline it.

He was not incorrect in his assumption.

"H. . .h-hai, Sensei," said Renji breathlessly, struggling to push the words past his own shock. "It would be an honor."

Byakuya nodded. "I will warn you, however, that it is not a responsibility I will see taken lightly. If I find your performance unsatisfactory, the privilege will be revoked. I make no exceptions, and I offer no second chances. On the days that you do not have kendo training, including those on which a scheduled practice is canceled, you will remain in this classroom and conduct any duties I see fit to assign you. Your assistance may also be required during lunch hours, homeroom, on Saturdays that you do not have class, and during this class itself. If you are given other students' papers to grade, you will do so fairly and discreetly, and speak nothing of the results to any who may ask you about them. Similarly, if you are given part of a lesson plan to arrange, or a test to prepare, you will exercise the utmost silence on the matter until its time is past. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Translucent."

"Good. That will be all for today, Abarai. You are dismissed."

"Hai, Sensei," Renji confirmed, but hesitated leaving. "Ku. . .Kuchiki-sensei, I. . ."

Byakuya regarded him with stolid expectancy. "Yes?"

Renji bowed at the waist, respectful and deep, his long hair falling forward to mask the color he could feel burning his cheeks. "Domo arigatou gozaimasu!"

When he rose again, Byakuya looked almost surprised -- enough, at least, that he was moved to verbally respond.

"You are welcome, Abarai. I will see you tomorrow."

Renji nodded once, and exited the room straight-backed, with his head held high.

He found Rukia, Yumichika, Kira and Gin waiting for him nearby, leaning against a row of lockers.

"Well?" Yumi prompted, pausing in his examination of his nails.

Renji shrugged, then finally allowed the shit-eating grin he'd been fighting down before he'd so much as left the classroom to spread across his features.

"I'm a T.A."

A beat passed, and then--

"Renji!" Rukia exclaimed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and leapt to hug him. "That's amazing! Nii-sama really. . .? Wow, that's amazing! I'm so happy for you!"

"Don't act so surprised," he playfully grouched. "He said that I 'surpassed that which is the expected standard.' I told you, I _told_ you!"

"You are quite certain," Yumichika smirked, "that he said _surpassed?_"

Renji shot him a warning glower. "Yes, Yumi, I am _quite certain._"

"Ninety-nine percent positive, even?" Kira egged him on, smiling lopsidedly.

"_I'm sure,_" the redhead scowled, and fidgeted with his hair, tugging it back up into its usual tangled ponytail.

"Congrats, Abarai-kun. But be careful -- Kuchiki-sensei seems kinda high-maintenance, ya know."

Renji looked briefly from placid Yumi to innocent Kira to perpetually self-satisfied Gin, but because it _was_ Gin, he let the comment go with a minimally suspicious "Thanks."

The group quieted as the door to room 906 opened once again, and Byakuya stepped out, briefcase in hand. He glanced only momentarily in their direction, gray eyes lingering first on Renji and then shifting to Rukia, before checking to see that his classroom door was locked and striding off in the opposite direction. They watched him go, and Yumichika sighed and gave Renji a comradely pat on the shoulder.

"I wish you luck, my friend," he said, then caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. "And as for the rest of you, I wish you a pleasant walk home, as I have business of my own to which I must attend. Oh Hisagi-san!"

At his locker a little way down the hall, Shuuhei froze. He turned around slowly, bemused by the androgyne's sudden formality.

"You talking to me?" he asked.

Yumi made a show of searching the hall. "Is there another Hisagi-san in the immediate vicinity of whom I am unaware?"

"No, but. . ." Shuuhei narrowed black eyes. "What do you want? And make it quick -- I've got a Soul Society meeting in five minutes."

"I need to speak to your brother."

"To Kensei? What about?"

Yumi only smiled enigmatically as he linked arms with the spiky-haired boy and led him away.

". . .well," said Rukia, "that was weird."

"Hn," Renji agreed. "I gotta run too, though -- Ikkaku's gonna give me enough shit about being a T.A.; I don't need to be late for practice on top of that."

"I'll go with you. No rhythmics today, so I may as well watch you get _your_ ass kicked."

"Oi, you wanna try your little ribbony thing against my shinai? Yeah. Didn't think so."

"Hey, I could make a noose out of that 'little ribbony thing' _while_ doing a half-dozen aerials _and_ wrap it around your neck by leaping over your fat head in a double stag! --Augh! Leggo! _Renji!_"

Rukia squealed and thrashed against the headlock-and-noogie combination in which Renji had her trapped. He grinned and laughed, even as she swung one leg back and up to kick him ineffectually in the shoulder blade.

It was a good day -- no, better than good. It surpassed Good.

It was Excellent.

* * *

"What's the big deal about getting to be a T.A. here, anyway?" Izuru asked as he and Gin meandered down a momiji-lined street, dead leaves crunching beneath their shoes as they walked. "I mean, I know why it's important to Abarai-kun personally, but as for everyone else. . ."

Gin reached up to pluck a brown leaf from a low-hanging branch. He set it atop Izuru's blond head, where it was immediately snatched by the wind and whirled away.

"Seireitei's a good school," he said. "The teachers are top-notch, too. Kuchiki-sensei got his Master's from Oxford, Urahara went ta MIT, Kurotsuchi ta Caltech, an' so on. If one o'them picks you ta be a teacher's aid, it's as good as a letter of recommendation written on gold leaf and signed in blood. It's _extra_ fancy."

"You're exaggerating."

"Think so?" Gin lifted a pale brow. "Even Aizen Sousuke-sama hisself's got a Gakushi in Educational Psychology from Todai. Studied at Harvard an' Johns Hopkins for a spell, too. C'mon now, ya don't think ol' Clan Kuchiki'd just let any random social worker who volunteered have the job, do ya? This here whole Pure Souls program is Sousuke's brainchild, his way of givin' back to the world, he says."

"Giving back. . ." Izuru echoed, mulling over the fresh knowledge, raking through it. "What did he take?"

"Us," Gin said after a moment's thought. "Kids like me an' Ran-chan, and Hinamori-chan, and you. He took us all an' he gave us a home an' he fills up our brains so he can turn around on us an' set us loose again."

"You mean 'turn us around.'"

"Huh?"

"You said Aizen-san's going to turn around on us; you mean he's going to turn us around. I'm sorry, I. . .correct things. It's annoying, I know, but sometimes I can't stop myself."

Gin looked at him. His smile wavered for a second, until he forced it into fullness with a good-natured chuckle. "Naa, Izuru, don't never stop yourself on my account."

_Ever,_ Izuru corrected again, but inwardly.

Then he considered the night he'd first met the boy, and wondered if Gin had spoken poorly, but not wrongly.

And then he wondered if he had done so both times.

* * *

_Never thought you'd make me perspire__  
Never thought I'd do you the same__  
Never thought I'd fill with desire  
Never thought I'd feel so ashamed_

_**Me and the dragon**__  
Can chase all the pain away  
__So before I end my day, remember  
My sweet prince, you are the one_

_Never thought I'd have to retire__  
Never thought I'd have to abstain__  
Never thought all this could back fire  
Close up the hole in my vein_

_Me and my valuable friend__  
Can fix all the pain away__  
So before I end my day, remember  
My sweet prince, you are the one_

_Never thought I'd get any higher__  
Never thought you'd fuck with my brain__  
Never thought all this could expire  
Never thought you'd go break the chain_

_Me and you, baby  
__Still flush all the pain away__  
So before I end my day, remember  
My sweet prince, you are the one. . . _-- Placebo, "My Sweet Prince"

* * *

**A/N:** _Hmn. Chapter six for Division Six, heh. & another full song, because I couldn't pick a single stanza. There's actually a really beautiful ByaRen amv on YouTube that's set to it. It's by dreamingallday & is called "Frail as Winter's End." I watched it repeatedly while writing this chapter; if any of you haven't already seen it, I highly recommend you check it out._

_The Cure song referenced is "Disintigration," although it was "Pictures of You" that vied with "My Sweet Prince" for the title. Maybe later._

_You know, I didn't even realize I had anonymous reviews disabled. . .not nice, not nice. Much like the anime's latest filler arc. At least that provides plenty of emo!Kira fodder. Po' thing. But he'll show 'em. He'll show 'em all. \m/ & if I go any further into that, I'll ramble. . .more. & possibly spoil (can one really spoil a filler arc?). So._

_Speaking of, Gin & Kira will be the focus of the next chapter, which will be out much faster than this one was. Part of the reason for the delay is that I've been working on multiple chapters in tandem, so I hope no one mistakes a lack of frequent updates for a loss of authorial interest -- it's quite the opposite, I assure you. _

_Thank you for reading. trishika, fan girl 666, Purpleshadowthief, QuirkyQ & nao-ranchan, thanks especially for the praise. _


	7. Oiled and Cleaned

**V****II. Oiled and Cleaned**

* * *

Some three and a half weeks later found Gin sprawled along one leg of the sofa in the TV room, drowsing to the unlikely Sunday afternoon lullaby of one of Iba's TiVo'd Play Girl Q reruns. Iba himself lounged across the other leg, watching avidly. The show was one of the few things on which Gin and his roommate could see eye-to-half-shut-eye: the simple value of unabashed, over-sexed camp rife with poorly-dubbed gunshot sound effects.

In this instance, the silver-haired boy considered the sleazy suspense of the show suitable background music for his thoughts. Granted, the sort of sleaze it specifically depicted did not accurately portray his intentions toward his melancholic kouhai -- Kira Izuru was a sweet thing to look at, which Gin could appreciate and would readily admit contributed greatly into his interest in the boy, but he remained inwardly adamant that that appreciation sprang from a purely aesthetical standpoint -- his attention in that particular area was solely focused on one person, and always had been.

Even if that one person's focus was no longer solely on him in return.

He threw an arm over his closed eyes as if to block the thought from insinuating itself any further under his lids and into his brain. In that respect, his pale lashes were poor guards, like transparent bars, easily phased through. Squirming, he turned over on his side to face away from the television and tucked up his legs against the back of the sofa.

"Oi, wake up, this is the best part!" Iba barked. "She's skipping, man,_ she's skipping--_!"

Gin made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and ignored him. Thanks to Rangiku, tits were nothing to which he had limited access, and he didn't require much of that to begin with. Besides, hers were far superior than any that had been caught on grainy, 1970s-era film, to be sure.

But magnificent though his best friend's assets were, at the moment they were no more than a fleeting glance of platonic but pleasurable softness against his mind, like the unnoticed weight of a blanket draped over the hunched shoulders of a man engrossed in a book on his lap -- which, in a manner of speaking, he was.

Almost a month had passed since the arrival of the sad-eyed blond, but no day had been quite so illuminating as Izuru's first at Seireitei Academy. His assertiveness in the cafeteria that Friday had honestly taken Gin by surprise. He'd known the boy would eventually apologize -- their scuffle in the kitchen had made it clear that Izuru was unused to and disliked harming others, even with vindication -- but Gin had expected the expression of regret to take a humbler form, something faltering and sheepish and probably out of eyeshot of Renji, who had no doubt freely shared with the new boy his less than stellar opinion of Ichimaru Fox-Face.

Since then, Izuru had remained remarkably tolerant of Gin's. . .well, of Gin. Boundaries had been overstepped, but those trespasses overlooked. Gin jabbed, and Izuru absorbed the blows steadfastly. Now, after two fortnights of prying questions and popping out of corners like the Ghost of Christmas Pest, Gin wondered if he oughtn't take a step back an re-examine his tactics.

There was a lot to be said for the masochism that occasionally manifested in those in mourning, for whom depression dictated they feel deserving of being treated without personal regard. Most people were readily provoked -- into fear if not into fighting -- but while Izuru flustered easily (Gin even wondered, sometimes, how he would ever grow weary of seeing that blush), there was something _off_ about his otherwise muzzled responses that didn't entirely fit the pattern. If the boy's questions, and what he drew from their answers, missed the mark, then so too did the answers he himself gave.

"Do ya miss 'em lots?" Gin had asked with the retiring insensitivity of a child; and Izuru had blanched, and looked as though someone had stabbed a knife in his gut, but replied sincerely, "Every day."

"When's it worst?" Gin pressed, knowing even blunt objects could draw blood.

". . .at night. When I can't sleep. When I was little, when my dad would work late, I used to pretend to go to bed but I'd just lay there in the dark, waiting up for him. When he got home he'd come in and check on me. I couldn't actually fall asleep until I heard that door open, and now. . .it's stupid, he hadn't checked on me in years; but now, knowing that I'll never hear that door open like that again. . ."

"Kinda stupid, yeah. I mean, of all the things ta miss, ya pick hinges an' a plank o'wood. . ."

And Izuru had _laughed._ Brittle and clipped, but it had been laughter just the same, and Gin almost had to fight back the urge to frown, if only to compensate for the oddity of the thing.

It was like punching a tree. Some of the bark flaked off, but his arm was beginning to tire. A bad apple himself, Gin knew rot when he saw it, and he should have been able to bore _through_ already. . .or else he should have, by all accounts, already grown bored.

Strange that he hadn't. Strange that, instead, his interest had only multiplied. He looked _everywhere_ for Izuru's detonator -- he studied the way his kouhai moved, ate, brushed his teeth (anxiously, sparingly, methodically); walked, sighed, pushed his hair out of his eyes (softly, frequently, only when annoyed) -- and came away from each examination none the wiser. Gin could still feel it, though, that nameless pent-up _something_ smoldering just beneath the blond's thin skin. That spark that had first caught his eye on the rooftop, with the wind's flickering of Izuru's silly, candle-bright hair as the boy had pulled himself up and over the edge, looking like some kind of bent-haloed angel trying to climb its way back to God.

_That's my line,_ Gin thought, and supposed that that theft had been part of his reasoning for coaxing the boy down to begin with. If Izuru was going to steal his thunder, then the blond ought to at least throw a decent lightning bolt to show for it. _An' if it's takin' him this long ta wind up, it'd better be one helluva pitch. . ._

"That's right, baby, run for Tou-san. . ."

Gin scowled at the back cushions of the sofa. "Maa, Iba-han. . ."

"What?"

"Keep it in your pants, eh? I ain't that asleep."

Iba's answering rumble segued into that of an engine outside, heralding the return from the supermarket of the three primary objects of Gin's frustration. He listened to the shutting of car doors and the crinkling of paper bags, waited for the tumble of the latch in the front door. It banged against the wall as the chaos of Renji barreled through, for which a reprimand from Sousuke was hot on his heels.

"I _tripped,_ okay? Sheesh. . ."

"Fine, just be more careful next time. . .ah, Gin, Tetsuzaemon, do you think you could pause that long enough to help put the groceries away? I'm sure the ladies won't mind; absence makes the heart grow fonder."

Gin sighed, then rolled off the couch and sprang to his feet with the rubbery ease that was his fashion. He took one of Izuru's two food-laden bags and followed the blond into the kitchen, where the linguistically-inclined Momo sat reading on a bar stool at the island counter.

"What do you have there?" Sousuke asked, tilting the book to read its cover while Momo's cheeks pinked brilliantly. "Ah, Lolita, a classic." He quoted in English, "_Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet. Age: five thousand three hundred days. Profession: none, or 'starlet.'_"

"_Dying, dying, Lolita Haze, of hate and remorse, I'm dying. And again my hairy fist I raise, and again I hear you crying,_" Gin returned, and received a black look for his trouble.

Sousuke turned back to Momo. "If you find you like Nabokov, I also have the majority of his other works in my office. You're welcome to them." He smoothed a paternal hand over her plum-dark locks, then produced a net bag of five pristine peaches seemingly from out of nowhere and set it on the counter in front of her with a smile. "Momos for Momo-chan, as requested."

Momo thanked him with an excited little squeal that made Gin want to hurl the fruit into the nearest trash can, and possibly its namesake as well.

He tugged on Izuru's hair in annoyance.

"Ouch!" the boy hissed. "What--"

"Look at you," Gin quickly covered, batting playfully at the odd growth pattern that kept the back of Izuru's longish hair split into two separate sections. "Two-tails, two-tails, like a lil' kitsune."

Renji snorted, stuffing an armload of leafy greens into one of the refrigerator bins. "That's rich, coming from you."

"I don't know," Momo smiled, lifting up Izuru's forelock. "He looks kind of like a rooster to me."

Iba sniggered. "Kira looks like a c--"

"_Kitsune,_" Sousuke interjected, pointedly arching an eyebrow at the mustachioed boy. "Ne, Tetsuzaemon?"

"Er. . .right."

Izuru, red-faced, scurried to put away the fish. Gin grinned, feeling better already.

"Yo!" came a low but undeniably female voice from the eastern end of the house, followed by the slamming of the front door. "Anybody home?"

Sousuke leaned back to call down the hall, "In the kitchen, Shihouin-sensei!"

"Oh come off it, Sousuke, even the kids call me Yoruichi," the dark-skinned woman chided, padding into the kitchen a moment later, bare feet quiet as cat paws against the tiles. As if sensing one of its own, a significantly rotund ball of gray fluff slunk in behind her, meowed and began to wind in figure-eights between her ankles.

"Ah, Haineko," Yoruichi greeted, reaching down to scoop Rangiku's lazy, overfed feline up in her arms and scritch behind its ears. "Did you miss me? Of course you did. . ." She took note of the grocery bags that littered the counter. "So what's for dinner?"

"Shihouin Yoruichi, straight to the point as always, and always pointed towards her stomach," Sousuke smirked. "I think Renji and Izuru-kun have nabemono on the menu."

"Then I'll tell Kisuke he'll be dining alone tonight." She gave Haineko one last nuzzle before returning the cat to the floor, then fixed Izuru with a serious look. "_You._"

"Huh?" The phrase "deer in the headlights" adhered itself to Izuru's expression.

"Just because you escaped my class by being an upperclassmen doesn't mean you won't be graded. My tastebuds are more discerning than any test scores you might have lucked your way through, and I expect nothing less than culinary excellence or so help me you will be shown first-hand precisely what it means to be _cooked._"

"Uh. . .I-I. . ."

Yoruichi let him sweat for a long moment before finally breaking into a wide grin. "I'm just screwing with you. Just make it edible and we're square. Now. . .what's for lunch?"

* * *

A few hours later, Renji and Izuru chopped vegetables. Gin sat cross-legged on the island and "helped," spinning the baseball he had pilfered from the top of Izuru's dresser about a week ago on the counter, frowning every time it rolled onto its red laces and wobbled free of its circumvolution. Renji turned on him in exasperation after his dozenth do-over.

"You know you don't _have_ to be here," the redhead pointed out.

"I'm supervisin'," said Gin, smiling benignly and spinning the ball again.

A loud chorus of shouts, half cheering and half jeering, drifted down from the game room, where Yoruichi had corralled the younger children for a cutthroat, battle-of-the-sexes game of foosball. From the sound of it, things weren't going much in the boys' favor.

Renji glanced up at the ceiling. "Why don't you supervise _them?_"

"They got Yoruichi-han with 'em."

"Exactly."

Gin said nothing. The spinning continued. Izuru's chopping slowed as the tension in the air wound taut with every turn of the baseball. Nervously he watched Renji's grip on his knife tighten.

Spin spin spin, wobble, roll, spin spin spin, wobble, roll, repeat.

Izuru jumped as his roommate slammed his blade down on the cutting board, whirled, snatched the baseball off of the counter and tossed it out into the hallway.

"There!" he snapped. "Go fetch."

Although his eyes couldn't be seen, Izuru got the distinct impression that Gin's gaze had grown murderous behind his silver bangs. His upper lip twitched, but his grin remained painfully wide and frozen on his face. Izuru looked from Gin to Renji, then to the discarded knife that lay across the room from both and yet somehow seemed well within reach of the fox-faced boy's spidery fingers.

But then Gin sighed, shrugged, hopped gracefully down from the counter and left to retrieve the ball. He didn't return, and the two remaining boys resumed their chopping.

"You didn't have to be so obnoxious, you know," Izuru said after a moment, levering handfuls of bok choy onto the side of his knife and adding them to the large pot of boiling fish, broth and vegetables on the stove.

"Oh come on!" Renji shot the blond a withering look. "He was askin' for it! He was deliberately tryin' to piss me off!"

"Still."

"Still nothin'. Look, I know you guys are all buddy-buddy and everything. I don't really _understand_ it, but that's your business, and my dislike of the him is mine. Don't expect me to cut him any slack just because you do, okay?"

Izuru knew couldn't argue with the redhead's logic, but he wanted to just the same. No, Renji didn't understand. Izuru wasn't even sure if he himself did. How could he adequately explain that all of Gin's impropriety, all of his badgering and his line-crossing, his wildly unpredictable mood swings and general dissonance with the rhythm of the world around him, had come to be the only things Izuru found made his life seem like it was actually _happening?_

How to explain that the tactless questions and comments Gin so casually threw in Izuru's face forced him to consider and deal with things he would have otherwise chosen to ignore and grow numb against? Or that he flinched away from Gin's touches not because they were unwelcome, but because they made him feel raw, new, like every spontaneous grip came away holding an old strip of skin that had been weighing him down, old skin that he'd mistaken for the creases of a prematurely aging soul? Gin hurt like a muscle that had been working too long without a rest. Gin hurt, but it was a pain that made Izuru feel a that much stronger, lighter, _freer_ than he had since his parents' deaths -- possibly even before.

And there was some guilt in that, in the notion that this new situation could be deemed in any way an improvement over his old one. He still couldn't comfortably acknowledge it, but in essence it all boiled off to leave a single blistering fact: Izuru liked Gin. A lot. He liked the way he felt so in control of himself for the simple rebellion of that affinity. He liked being pushed and not pushing back, because for the first time it was expected that he should. He'd never known himself to be subject to the whims of any person who wasn't deemed appropriate by whomever happened to be standing on the sidelines holding judgment. It wasn't that he felt like he was becoming a different person, but that the person he already was was being differently perceived. For the first time in his life, Izuru wasn't afraid of his own erosion; rather, he felt as though he were being. . ._polished,_ being made ready for some upcoming estimation of his worth, and for once he found himself anticipating the test. For once he didn't feel like an ineffectual weapon, but instead like he was becoming a shield.

Bit by bit he melted, every time he caught a glint of genuine mirth in Gin's smile. Bit by bit, he was reforged by the hammering blows of the silver-haired boy's maladroit inquiries -- inquiries no one else had bothered to make. Izuru had always fit into that particular niche of boys who were well-liked, but could never be called popular. He'd always excelled at school, and baseball, and writing. He wasn't bad-looking or mean-spirited. He was reliable: he could be counted on to be consistently good at whatever task he undertook. He could be counted on to be _good_ -- and quiet, and polite, and, he suspected, fairly boring. He'd had many acquaintances throughout his life, but seemed to lack the charisma required to entice those superficial relationships into delving deeper into true friendship. "So you wanna be bait," as Renji might've said.

But Izuru didn't feel like bait. Like he was being baited, perhaps, but was that really such a bad thing? It was preferable to being feared and avoided, or not thought of at all.

When his parents died, not one of his former classmates had called, written, emailed, or even texted in shorthand to relay to him their condolences. It was as if he had died along with them, and so it was little wonder that he had come to believe the same.

Gin was right -- sometimes a person just needed to be touched. So what if Gin's hands were cold? Izuru could at least feel them. Truth be told, he liked the feel of them very, very much. And anyway, they would always warm when Gin let them rest against him for long enough. It was as if the older boy needed the heat, like a snake basking in the glow of a sun lamp, a cold-blooded thing wholly dependent on outside sources for warmth.

Sometimes a person just needed to be touched.

Renji gave the boiling rice a stir. He tasted the soup, burned his tongue, hissed and swore.

"Karma," Izuru mumbled.

The redhead glared. "Shut the hell up."

Izuru smirked.

He was just adding the last of the mushrooms into the pot when Yoruichi bounded into the kitchen, looking victorious and very pleased with herself.

"Is there enough for fourteen?" she asked, swiping a glass from the cupboard and the milk from the fridge. "Isane and Rangiku brought home a stray."

"Who are you calling a stray?" Kyouraku-sensei entered, pouting. "I assure you, my breeding is impeccable."

"But you admit to being a dog."

"Woof," he conceded with a shrug and a suggestive leer. "But I am coerced into howling only when confronted with beauty as luminous as the moon."

"Tch. Save it for Nanao, you hound."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Izuru's mouth at their harmless exchange. "The soup will stretch," he said, "and there's more than enough rice to go around."

Kyouraku rubbed his hands together hungrily. "Glad to hear it!"

In the month since his arrival, Izuru had gradually grown accustomed to the comings and goings of some of the Seireitei faculty members, although it was still a little strange to see so much of his teachers in a setting outside of school. Shihouin Yoruichi, who taught physical education and coached the Academy's track and field team, showed up the most often, sometimes with the famed Urahara Kisuke-sensei in tow. Both were much sought-after teammates for games, and the latter with homework help, if it was of a mathematical or scientific nature. Urahara reminded Izuru of Kyouraku-sensei somewhat, both possessing a similar lackadaisical approach to life and the same abhorrence of shoes.

Kyouraku himself came once or twice a week, and always on Tuesdays to compose lewd tanka with the boys in the library while Ise-sensei read with Momo. Ukitake-sensei occasionally accompanied him, and Izuru found the white-haired man to be a patient, goodhearted individual with a genuine interest in the well-being of others. He was always available for counsel and never arrived without treats -- cookies, candies, doughnuts, ice cream, and anything else Aizen refused to keep in abundant supply in the house -- with the almost grandfatherly logic that sweet children didn't happen without plenty of sugar to make them so.

Tousen-sensei visited mainly with Aizen himself, although he did allow the younger kids and Iba, who had a particular fondness for dogs, to play with Sajin while they took tea; and Unohana-sensei, the dulcet school nurse, came every Monday evening to share her knowledge of medicine and anatomy, as well as herbalism and ikebana, with any who were interested -- usually Hanatarou and the Kotetsu sisters, but sometimes others found themselves clustered around her on cushions on the floor in the sitting room, content just to listen to her speak. She had a sweet, soothing voice and a vaguely maternal demeanor that, in a place like Pure Souls, generated its own sort of gravitational pull.

Your friends are the family that you choose for yourself, as the saying goes. Izuru tried to imagine Gin growing up in such an environment, undesired for closeness by the majority of his peers, and even more or less overlooked by the pseudo-aunts and -uncles of the Academy staff, as if he had been there for so long he had become a fixture of the house itself, like a painting on a wall that was occasionally dusted off but no longer admired. Through the idle comments of others, Izuru had discovered that Gin had spent nearly half his young life there at least, that he'd been one of Aizen's very first wards, and was regarded by many as a promise unfulfilled, although no one could or would elaborate as to why.

If Izuru was being polished, then Gin, true to his name, was tarnished, and Izuru couldn't help but wonder if the older boy's efforts were in actuality some silent, subconscious plea for that favor to be paid in kind. Give and take, extrovert and introvert, rude and polite, silver and gold, Fox-Face and Two-Tails. . .they weren't exactly mirror images or complete opposites, but they were, perhaps, one another's (in Gin's case, backhanded) complement. Maybe not fire and ice, but perhaps warm embers and frostbite.

He thought of swaggering, uncouth Renji and stuffy, formal Kuchiki-sensei. No, the redhead didn't understand; but given time, and enough self-awareness, Izuru hoped that he could eventually come to do so.

* * *

After dinner, Aizen joined Yoruichi and the girls, with the exception of Rangiku, for a walk, leaving Kyouraku-sensei behind to mind (or be minded by) the other children.

The housebound group sat scattered on the back porch, Iba, Renji and Rangiku taking advantage of the only chaperone who condoned their smoking, despite not especially approving of it (hypocrisy was not a part of Kyouraku's make-up, even if tobacco was not his herb of choice). The twilight sky burned from topaz to amethyst as the sun, full and languid as those who watched it, sank gradually below the horizon.

"Hey Matsumoto, look," said Renji, tapping his cigarette over a passing Haineko. "Ashtray Cat."

He darted out of reach of Rangiku's answering smack in the very nick of time.

"Dick!" She glared at him and patted the ashes out of the oblivious feline's fur. "I'm telling Yoruichi."

Renji blanched. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

"No, you wouldn't, because you're a much kinder and gentler and sweeter and prettier and all-around better person than I am," he said hopefully.

Rangiku looked thoughtful. "Hm, you're right. But I'm also overworked -- all those dishes to do tonight. . ."

Renji hung his head in defeat. "Deal."

The buxom girl smiled winningly. "Why thank you, Renji-kun! You're a prince."

"Yeah? I feel like a fuckin' toady."

"Ah," sighed Kyouraku-sensei around a blade of long grass. Blades of long grass seemed to sprout in his vicinity no matter how well-trimmed the lawn to which he was nearest. "It's so good to see young people these days going out of their way to help one another. Such consideration is a regrettably dying art form. It reminds me of the story of the fox's ball; are any of you familiar with that one?"

Negative silence, although seven sets of eyes swung around to land on Gin, who was once again absorbed in the spinning of Izuru's baseball on the stone. He didn't seem to notice the attention, and only paused in his game to allow Haineko to nose her way onto his lap, where she curled up comfortable and content as a queen.

Kyouraku cleared his throat.

"The Fox's Ball," he began. "Once upon a time, a healer and his medium were called upon to exorcise a spirit that was making a person ill. Through the medium, the spirit declared itself to be a fox. It claimed that it hadn't intended to make anyone ill; it had only come in search of food, and for it to be held against its will within the medium was really quite unfair. Perturbed, the possessed medium withdrew from her robe a small white ball of the type with which foxes can often be found, and began tossing it in the air and catching it."

Gin ceased his spinning, and did as the story dictated. The younger boys laughed. Renji rolled his eyes.

Kyouraku smiled and went on, "Now, among the crowd that had gathered to witness the exorcism was a skeptical man who believed the entire thing to be a hoax. Deciding to have a bit of sport, the next time the medium threw the ball up into the air, the skeptic quickly stuck out his hand, snatched the ball before she could catch it again, and stuck it down the front of his robe.

"The fox spirit was aghast. . ."

Gin gasped and brought a hand up to his mouth in mock-distress.

". . .it cursed the man and demanded its ball be returned to it at once, but no matter how fervently it pleaded, the man remained unmoved.

"'But it won't be of any use to you!' the fox reasoned. 'You don't know how to keep it. I, on the other hand, will grieve the loss of it terribly. I swear to you, if you do not give me back my ball I'll be your enemy forever! But if you _do_ give it back,' the fox promised, 'when called upon I will protect you until the end of your days.'

"'Protect me, eh?' asked the man, growing bored of the game. 'That's fine, then.' He tossed the ball back to the medium, and the fox spirit crowed with joy. The exorcism was completed, the fox was sent along its way, and the healer and the medium prepared to leave.

"'One thing first,' said the skeptical man, and he looked into the pocket of the medium's robe where she, as the fox, had placed the ball when it had been returned to her. . ."

Gin hid the baseball in the front pouch of his hoodie and made a show of looking under Haineko and down the front of his sweatshirt.

". . .but the pocket was empty."

His face re-emerged, and he shrugged, holding up bare hands.

"A trick, to be sure, thought the man, and within a few days he'd put the whole incident out of his mind. In fact, he didn't think of it again until some years later when, on his way home one night from a temple, he would have to pass through a bad part of town.

"Seized with fright, he recalled suddenly the fox's oath to protect him, and although he was still skeptical of the spirit's existence, he was desperate enough to test it.

"'Fox! Fox!' he hissed into the darkness, and to his surprise he was answered by a series of sharp barks. The fox appeared before him only a moment later. Touched that the creature had honored its promise, the man explained his fears, and while the fox spoke nothing in reply, it seemed to understand his words. It went on ahead, sniffing carefully, and the man followed. The fox led him cautiously through side streets and alleyways, along a roundabout route no person would ordinarily take. The man wondered, ever so briefly, if the animal spirit was simply having him on -- foxes are well-known for their trickery, after all -- but no sooner had that doubt entered his mind than he caught sight of a lamplit group of men through the slats of a fence. They were bandits, discussing where to commit their next robbery -- and it would have taken place along the exact route by which the man would have traveled home, had he been alone!

"Instead he made it safely home, and the fox, its task accomplished, disappeared from sight just as quickly as it had popped up. It would not be the last time the spirit would come to the man's rescue, and the man was very glad indeed that he had had sense enough to return the fox's ball, for one act of mercy, however reluctantly performed, deserves another."

"Yeah," Renji agreed. "Hear that, Ran? You wait, you'll be doing my dishes till the end of my days!"

Rangiku only shrugged. "Sure. And just how many days do you think you'll have left when I tell Yoruichi what you did to my poor Haineko?"

"What?! But you already said--!"

Renji's protests fell on deaf ears, Izuru's included.

Gin was staring at him, head tilted in contemplation. His silver hair, lavender-tinged in the waning pink sunlight, fell lopsided to obscure the narrow slits of his eyes. He held the baseball inactive in one hand, and then, as if coming to a conclusion, tossed it back to its rightful owner with a casual snap of his wrist. Izuru caught it automatically.

Fox-Face. Two-Tails. Kitsune may, at will, take human form. Which of them, then, was truly the man, and which one the beast? Which would end up the indebted protector, and who was to act out the part of the thief?

* * *

_Metal is tough, metal will sheen  
Metal won't rust when __**oiled and cleaned  
**Metal is tough, metal will sheen  
Metal will rule in my master scheme. . ._ -- Siouxsie & the Banshees, "Metal Postcard"

* * *

**A/N:** _Don't mind the new penname. Just felt like a change. Shunsui's Fox's Ball comes from some anthology of Japanese folktales I read a while back; Lolita, of course, is disclaimed in-text; and if anyone is looking for a random cheeseball laugh, I advise you to employ your YouTube-fu & search for Play Girl Q, because wow, hah.  
_

_Next chapter: the Winter Fireworks Festival (& some familiar Karakura faces), more GinIzu, & finally some de-U-ing of that UST. Not quite RST, though. Baby R, maybe. rST. Extra T (ooh, tea. . .pardon; Iroh moment)._

_trishika: Ah, Placebo love. We shares it. & yeah, Gin bursts all personal bubbles. So, it seems, do many of the Shinigami, actually, unless Ichigo just has an inborn talent for waking up straddled by weird men (Tessai, Renji, who's next?). . ._

_TheAngelofLucifer: Ooh, I kind of hope you do. Briefcase!Byakuya somehow seems even stuffier than kenseiken!Byakuya. "The filler is naff." That sums it up beautifully, & I normally really like the fillers.  
_

_fan girl 666: Danke schoen. The GinKira end bit was almost an omake, not quite intended, but I'm glad to know it worked for at least one person. :)_

_As usual, thank you, all readers & reviewers, for doing as you do. I hope you stick around. Lots more to come. _


	8. Young Bones Groan

**VIII. Young Bones Groan**

* * *

"Where the hell is my other boot?!" Rangiku groused, limping half-shod in circles around the genkan.

Kiyone poked her head over the landing at the top of the stairs. "What's it look like?"

Rangiku held up her foot demonstratively.

"Oh. Nope. Haven't seen it."

Rangiku sighed heavily in annoyance. "Ask Isane if she borrowed them and kicked it somewhere stupid, would you?"

"Sure thing. NEE-SAN! RANGIKU-SAN SAYS YOU STOLE HER BOOT!"

"What?!" Isane's voice shrilled from the room she shared with her alleged accusor. "I haven't been anywhere _near_ her boots!"

"That is _not _what I said, your sister's a brat!" Rangiku shouted back.

"Matsumoto lost a boob?" asked Iba, tramping down from the boys' dormitories. "Now that's fuckin' tragic, man."

"_Boot,_" Rangiku snapped. "I've had my outfit for this festival picked out for _two weeks_ and I am _not _going to wear anything else!"

"You're not gonna wear anything but boots?" Iba gave her a lingering, lascivious once-over. "Fine by me, but you might get cold -- which is also fine by me."

"Tetsuzaemon, sexual harassment," Aizen reprimanded as he passed, his arms full of a puffy teal parka. "Rangiku, perspective. Rin!" he called up the stairs.

"In here!" the ponytailed boy's voice sounded from the TV room.

"Jacket," said Aizen, and tossed the parka across the hall before heading up the girls' staircase. "Kiyone, if you're ready, go put on your shoes."

"Hai, Taichou!"

"That's my line!" complained Renji from the kitchen, backed up by Rikichi's "Yeah!"

On the upstairs landing of the south wing, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall out of sight, Gin chewed his fingernails to stifle a laugh. To his left was a grayish-blue suede-and-fleece Ugg suspiciously without a partner.

Izuru looked at him. "What are you doing?" he asked, more for the sake of it than any actual ignorance.

"Shhh!" Gin hissed, waving at him to be silent before calling down to Rangiku, "What color is it?"

"Blue!" she hollered back. "Or gray. Take your pick."

"Does it lace up the front?"

"Yes!"

"An' does it have kinda sorta pinkish lil' flowery bits embroidered on the tongue?"

"Uh-huh. . ."

"Size twenty-four? With some white fluffy stuff pokin' out the top?"

"Yeah. . ."

"Ain't seen it, sorry."

"Gin, give me my fu-- my damn boot!"

Gin muffled his giggles behind his hand.

Izuru rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Just give it to her," he said.

Gin shook his head.

"Don't _make_ me come up there!" Rangiku's voice threatened from downstairs.

"Come on," Izuru pressed. "We're gonna be late."

"Nuh-uh."

Izuru reached for the boot. Gin swiped it away and held it aloft on his right side. Izuru tried again, and Gin tossed the boot to his other hand.

"Maa, too slow!"

Izuru, now on his knees, narrowed his eyes.

"Ooh, whatcha gonna do, I-zu-ru?" Gin mocked, shaking the boot tauntingly as he would one of Haineko's catnip mice.

Izuru lunged -- feinted -- lunged again for Gin's other side. He got hold of the boot, but Gin's grip on the thing was strong -- and he had a free hand.

Izuru yelped as Gin's fingers dug into his ribs, tickling mercilessly. He flailed; they tangled, and toppled over.

"Gin! S-s-stop!" Izuru ordered, as well as he could for laughing.

"Say uncle!"

"Uncle!"

"Now say please!"

"P-please!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his face was beginning to ache.

Finally, Gin relented.

". . .just kidding!"

"No-- ack!"

They tumbled and rolled, and -- following a split-second of mutual astonishment and dismay -- ran out of landing and continued thus down the stairs as well, somersaulting over one another twice before equilibrium established itself, with Izuru in the unfortunate position of acting as Gin's human sled as they tobogganed down the last five steps and skidded to a bumpy stop just shy of the genkan.

For a moment, stunned silence reigned.

It passed, and Kiyone and Iba collapsed into laughter on the floor.

"What was that?" the disembodied head of Aizen demanded, peering around the wall at the top of the other staircase.

Rangiku pursed her lips at the pretzeled pair in front of her. "The sound of idiots in action."

Aizen sighed. "Are they bleeding?"

"No," she said lightly, snatching her boot out of Gin's hand, "not yet."

He nodded. "Try to keep it off the carpet."

"Of course."

Izuru struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him in the fall. Gin's dead weight on top of him, convulsing with silent laughter, didn't offer much in the way of help.

"Man, that does not _even_ look right," Renji, drawn by the commotion, assessed with humiliating accuracy.

Behind him, Rikichi shook his head in agreement. "Not _even._"

"What do you know about it, squirt? Go put on your shoes." Renji knuckled the younger boy's dark hair, and Rikichi sprang to comply.

At last, Gin lifted his head from where it was buried in the crook of Izuru's neck and grinned down at the dazed blond beneath him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Off," Izuru weakly croaked.

Gin pushed himself up, then paused, hovering balanced on his hands and knees. "Uh, your leg," he said. "Kinda stuck."

Izuru turned crimson and quickly lowered his right leg, which had somehow become wrapped around the backs of the older boy's corduroy-clad thighs.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don' worry about it," said Gin easily, not seeming to register the awkwardness of the moment at all. He merely leapt down the last three steps past Izuru's head and, while his kouhai was busy wishing the staircase would swallow him whole, bent down and hooked his wrists beneath Izuru's underarms and dragged the slighter boy the rest of the way down the stairs and into the genkan. "Ups-a-daisy!"

Izuru, wondering what kind of condition his back was going to be in at forty, overcame enough of his surprise to accept Gin's proffered hand, and allowed himself to be hauled once again to his feet. His embarrassment drew the line, however, when Gin dusted him off with a few rough, efficient swats to his back, his legs, and -- Izuru bit back a second yelp -- his ass.

"Okay, okay, I'm clean!"

Gin only smiled at him, shrugged, and dropped down to the floor to put on his sneakers.

"I hope everyone's used the toilet," Aizen advised, trailing Momo and Isane down the stairs. "Trust me when I say the ones at the festival are not a life experience you'll want to add to your lists."

"And if you have to use one," added Renji, "then for the love of all that is taiyaki don't get in line directly behind Iba."

"Hey, it's not my fault bean paste messes up my stomach."

"_Food_ messes up your stomach, Iba-san," Rikichi pointed out, plugging his nose and waving at the air in front of his face.

"Why you little--" Iba swiped at the twelve-year-old, who darted quickly -- if not with very much foresight -- behind Hanatarou for protection. It was only by the grace of a literal deus ex machina that he was saved, in the form of a honking horn outside.

"That'll be Yumichika," said Renji, burrowing into an olive green hoodie. "C'mon, Iba. You know how His Imperial Majesty hates to be kept waiting."

"Tch." Iba zipped up his jacket to the neck and stomped out of the house.

Renji tugged Rikichi closer and whispered _sotto voce_ in his ear, "Hey, how's about later on at the festival me an' Ikkaku'll hold him down so you can fart in his face?"

Rikichi snickered. They dabbed fists conspiratorially before Renji headed out the door.

Izuru hurriedly shoved his socked feet in his shoes, grabbed his jacket from the genkan closet and hastened outside, but paused when he realized that Gin wasn't, as per usual, slouching along behind him. He threw the silver-haired boy a questioning glance.

"Are you coming?"

"Nah," said Gin. "I'ma ride with Sousuke an' 'em."

"Oh." A little stone of disappointment plopped into Izuru's stomach.

Gin's grin broadened. "Don' look so sad, ne? I'll see ya there."

His cheek twitched in a wink. Izuru blushed.

"O-of course. I'm not sad. I just thought. . ." Yumi's horn honked a second time. "Right," said Izuru quickly, "I'll see you."

He jogged down to the edge of the drive and through the smaller, walk-in side gate that Renji had left open, and which Izuru closed behind him before climbing into the back of Yumi's SUV. The usual group was present, along with the surprising addition of Shuuhei, who was slumped against the window of the second row driver's side backseat, looking sour.

"Hisagi-san? What happened to your car?" Izuru asked.

"Blew a gasket," the black-eyed boy grumbled. "Won't have time to fix it until winter recess."

"Oh, wow, that's too bad. But at least you'll only have to wait a few days?"

"I would that it were longer," chirped Yumi from the driver's seat, smiling at Shuuhei through the rearview mirror. "I for one will always welcome Shuu-chan's company, for whatever the reason."

Shuuhei looked for a moment like he wanted to roll his eyes, but then perhaps realized whose vehicle he was in and thought better of it, instead giving Yumichika a brusque thanks that set the androgynous boy to beaming.

Izuru watched the house as they pulled away, watched as Aizen ushered the girls and Gin and the younger Lost Souls into the foster home's Honda van, and tried to halt an irrational influx of unease at the sight. A simple ride to a festival was not -- _not,_ he told himself firmly -- cause for separation anxiety. He was not that pathetic, and if it hadn't been for the incident on the staircase, he imagined he could have accepted Gin's choice easily; but Izuru over-thought things, overdid things internally with just as much outlandishness as Gin did physically.

He really hadn't intended to end up so mortifyingly -- intimately -- splayed beneath the older boy. Of course he hadn't. They'd just fallen down the damned stairs, for crying out loud; he'd had no control over the positioning of his limbs at the bottom. Gin himself had been in no hurry to get up -- in fact, he'd seemed quite comfortable with employing Izuru as a mattress -- and Izuru. . .thinking back on it now, Izuru really hadn't had a problem with it, either. He'd been more stunned than pained, and Gin wasn't _that_ heavy, and. . .and he smelled really, really good, no cologne this time, just the soap-and-silver scent of _Gin. . ._

Izuru hadn't moved his leg. He hadn't really _wanted_ to move his leg, randomly positioned or otherwise. He'd. . .he'd liked it, having Gin. . .well, not even so much _there_ -- although had the curious eyes of others not been present, and had Gin tarried in shaking laughter just a little while longer, Izuru didn't think there would have been any chance of his covering up exactly to what extent he'd enjoyed it -- but. . .close. Closer, even, than normal. Closer than grazing knees while sitting next to one another, or knocking shoulders as they walked. Closer than chilly hands ruffling his hair, or one long arm slung across his back, cold fingers biting into his upper arm. He'd liked it. He liked. . .

_Oh fuck me, you don't like Fox-Face, do you?_

Izuru stole a glance at Renji. The unlikely prophet was gesticulating wildly to Shuuhei, reenacting his winning blow against a member of Koutei Academy's Kendo Club in a recent match.

"Man, Matsumoto didn't even do it justice in the paper. I mean, the guy was _down,_ out cold from _one_ hidari-men strike! Ahh," Renji sighed, flexing ineffectually inside his sweatshirt, "sometimes it _hurts_ to be so good!"

Possibly even better than he crowed about, thought Izuru.

Terminal velocity. Could he really have fallen for someone so fast? What did it say about him, that he'd found a smile again -- a literal, constant smile -- a mere two weeks into his mourning, and that he'd become so attached to it within a mere two months?

A movie he'd once seen had explicated that people often sought sex after funerals, sought the verification of life in the wake of death. Was that all this was, a weird, roiling concoction of his being fifteen and hormonal and grieving? Was this a crush, or a crutch?

Izuru thought about sex with Gin. He had a loose idea of what boys did with one another, and the thought had never appealed to him, in the technical sense. It seemed too. . .out there, something reserved for the back rooms of video stores -- too seedy and uncomfortable and just plain _wrong,_ things weren't supposed to _fit_ like that, and he'd never heard it spoken about in a positive way. He'd decided early on that the act was nothing he would ever try, and had even been reassured by his own attitude toward the subject that, despite his never having had romantic feelings for a girl -- or a boy, for that matter -- he was still roughly normal. He'd suspected he was a late bloomer, or that maybe he simply wasn't wired to be an overtly sexual person. . .but here, now, unpleasant technicalities aside, the thought of touching Gin, of _kissing Gin,_ all cool skin and soft lips and everywhere-hands. . .the thought of wrapping his legs around pale, naked thighs and _keeping_ them there. . .

"Kira? Oi, Kira! Snap out of it!"

"Huh?" Flushed, Izuru blinked, readjusting his eyes to reality and his heart against palpitating as a silver something else was waved tantalizingly in front of his face. He took the flask automatically, gave its contents a cautious sniff and wrinkled his nose at the yeasty smell. "What is it?"

"Pigeon Ruby," said Renji. "'s whiskey."

He grinned at Izuru's hesitation.

"Lemme guess, you've never had a drink before, have you?"

He hadn't. Neither of his parents had drunk outside of social functions. They'd disapproved of using alcohol as a vice, and aside from the occasional bottle of sake bought specifically for a dinner party or festive gathering, liquor had never been kept in the Kira household.

He wondered what else they might have disapproved of, about which he'd never get the chance to find out.

Izuru closed his eyes and took a large swig. Sour, lukewarm liquid filled his mouth, and he forced it down in one burning, choking gulp.

He saw red. His eyes watered, and the salivary glands at the back of his mouth twanged painfully, working in overdrive at the sudden assault to his tastebuds and esophagus.

"Yeah! That's the spirit!" Renji encouraged, thumping Izuru on the back as the blond coughed into the crook of his elbow.

The discomfort ebbed after a few moments, and Izuru regained control of his breathing. Again he felt that strange mixture of pride and shame, of freedom and dishonor, that had been plaguing him in spits and spurts for the past few weeks. He took a second, shorter pull from the flask, swallowed this one with much greater ease, then passed the nearly empty container back to Renji, who handed it to Iba, who downed the last of the liquid inside before returning it to Ikkaku, its surmisable owner. The bald boy refilled it from a bottle he produced from beneath his seat before tucking it away inside one of the many pockets of his army-issue flak jacket.

Izuru settled back in his seat and felt the dull, almost achy warmth of the alcohol begin to weight his limbs. He decided it suited him. When the flask was passed around a second time forty minutes later, as Yumi followed the directions of the parking officials just outside Karakura Town's Winter Fireworks Festival compound, he was glad to be the last one to receive it, and quickly polished off the remainder of the liquor inside.

Iba watched him, sniggering. "I think we have a burgeoning lush on our hands."

Shuuhei smirked. "Wait till he stands up."

That wasn't quite fair, Izuru thought. He only staggered the once while getting out of the vehicle.

Renji steadied him with a hand to his shoulder.

"C'mon, lightweight, walk it off, walk it off," the redhead smiled, leading him in the direction of the festival gates.

There were lights. Many thousands of them, and of many different colors. Some of them spun, and not solely at the behest of Izuru's slightly swirling vision. He searched the poorly-lit parking field for the Pure Souls van, but could see only row upon row of family sedans and sized-for-city-life compacts.

Noise accosted him from every angle as the group entered the compound, in the form of chattering crowds and vendors shouting to advertise their wares, rides that rocketed in circles to the pace of popular rock music and the high-pitched shrieks of small fireworks being set off at random. In the distance he could see an amateur sumo contest taking place, and across the midway, a kendo exhibition drew a sizable assemblage.

They paused a little way inside and surveyed their surroundings.

"Well, gentlemen," said Yumichika, stroking his chin contemplatively, "what's our plan of attack?"

Iba and Ikkaku looked at one another.

"Funhouse," they decided in unison.

"Tch, forget it," Yumi scoffed. "Unflattering mirrors."

Ikkaku shrugged, stuffing a black beanie onto his bald head. "Suit yourself. Hisagi? Abarai?"

Shuuhei glanced up at the mass of cargo nets, twisted tunnels and rolling rooms that loomed in the distance. He looked unaffected.

"Maybe later. I wanna hit up the games."

"A most excellent suggestion," Yumi agreed. "Abarai-kun? Kira-kun?"

Renji's stomach answered for him in the form of an obnoxious growl.

". . .yeah. That. And I think Kira could do with something to eat, too."

"Oh, no," Izuru said quickly. "I'm fine. Really."

Renji rolled his eyes. "You had what, three bites at dinner? Let's go. The taiyaki calls."

"But--"

Izuru's protest was trampled underfoot as he was tugged away towards the food stalls by the sleeve of his jacket. Ikkaku and Iba headed off in the opposite direction, and Shuuhei and Yumichika in a third.

"Abarai-kun, I'm really not--"

"Baka," Renji cut him off. "Don't you get it? You'd have been a third wheel."

"A th. . .oh. But isn't. . .isn't Hisagi-san straight?"

"Well, yeah, but Yumi ain't, and you don't cockblock your friends, no matter how hopeless their conquests." Renji's voice was tinged with painfully personal experience. "And anyway, you _do_ need to eat more. I may as well be dragging around a balloon for how much you weigh. I can see how Fox-Face does it so easily."

Izuru's shoulders drooped somewhat at the mention of Gin. He wondered if the silver-haired boy was his own hopeless conquest, although he couldn't really picture himself being a conquistador of anything. Even so, Gin's ambiguous sexuality was a suddenly swinging pendulum of Is-he-or-isn't-he? in Izuru's mind. If he wasn't, then was that why he had chosen to ride to the festival with Aizen and the others? Had the -- now infamous, in Izuru's brain -- Staircase Incident bothered him more deeply than he'd let on?

But if he _was. . ._if he _was,_ then through how different a lens would Izuru have to look upon Gin's excessively tactile nature?

He wanted to see Gin again, right now, if just to know, if just to gauge whether Gin had ridden with Aizen only because he'd wanted to ride with Rangiku, or because he actually felt the need to avoid his kouhai. Gin was clingy, but it was possible that even he had his limits. It was possible that Izuru had clung back too tightly.

"Hey, you all right?" Renji asked, frowning at him in concern as they waited in line at the taiyaki booth. "You're lookin' kinda green around the gills. Did the whiskey kick your ass that hard?"

Izuru shook his head. "No, I. . .it's nothing. It'll pass."

"Aa. Don't worry, we'll get you some of _these_ gills and you'll perk right back up." They shuffled forward to the front of the line for fish-shaped cakes. "Three, please!"

* * *

"Skeeball?" Yumichika suggested.

Shuuhei sneered a little. "Nah. Too easy."

"Goldfish Scooping?"

"Not unless you're in the mood for sushi."

"Hmm. Perhaps later. Shooting Gallery?"

Shuuhei eyed the stall lined with pellet guns in front and metal ducks along the back wall. He looked at Yumi, inspected the effeminate boy's orange turtleneck, his fitted black leather jacket, his mascara.

"You're on."

* * *

"Tell me again why I'm here."

Shihouin Yoruichi grinned ferally in the rearview mirror. "Because _everyone_ is here, Byakuya-bo. Because it is a celebratory community event--"

"Not _our_ community," her dour passenger muttered, lending to his voice what dignity his body lacked at having his knees squished entirely too close to the vicinity of his ears in the cramped backseat of Yoruichi's sporty little yellow Mazda.

"--and because," she continued as if she hadn't heard him, "it'll do you good to interact with the little people."

"I do interact with the 'little people.' On a daily basis. They're called 'students.'"

"Yare yare, Kuchiki Byakuya-dono sounds dangerously close to whining, doesn't he, Kisuke?"

"Oh yes, dangerously so," Urahara sagely agreed, his striped hat doing little to shadow the amusement in his eyes.

On the scale of glares, Byakuya's present one ranked somewhere below "nuclear winter" but above "arctic."

"There's only one thing for it, you know," said the physics professor, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"Dare I ask."

"Oh, dare, dare!"

". . ."

Urahara and Yoruichi exchanged glances.

"Well," the former began, "first there's the beer. . ."

"And then the games," said Yoruichi, "once you're good and inebriated."

"Followed by the Funhouse, to compare your drunk goggles with the mirrors. . ."

". . .and the mazes, and if you come out the other side alive--"

"--we stuff you with greasy festival food--"

"--shake you up on the Breakdancer--"

"--the Kamikaze--"

"--and the Freak Out, until you spew hard enough to dislodge the stick from your ass--"

"--by which time you should be loosened up enough to enjoy the fireworks."

Nuclear winter.

"Take me home. Now."

"Aww, come on, Byakuya-bo," said Yoruichi brightly, getting out of the car. She jerked her seat forward, grabbed hold of his wrist (there was no room, alas, for him to even attempt to recoil), and yanked him unceremoniously from the car with the unapparent but still very present strength of many, many afternoons spent being paid to occupy weight rooms and gymnasiums. "You _will_ have fun."

"Is that an order, Shihouin-sensei?" he asked icily.

"Nope. It's a threat." She linked arms with him -- firmly -- and hands with Urahara. "Now why don't you boys concentrate on showing a lady a good time?"

The two men leaned back slightly to glance at one another over Yoruichi's shoulders.

"Lady. . .?" Urahara silently mouthed.

Byakuya lifted an eyebrow skeptically.

"Oi, no dissension among the ranks! Face front. Forward march."

Urahara saluted and smiled. "Yes ma'am!"

Byakuya only sighed.

* * *

**U cant come??**

Scowling from where he hung by one hand and foot in the middle of one of the Funhouse cargo nets, Ikkaku hit Send on his cell phone and pocketed the device. He'd reached the top when it beeped again, letting him know he had a new text message. Irritably he flipped it open and hit Read.

**No. I'm sorry. Otou-sama thinks festivals are a waste of time.**

"_Fuck_ your otou-sama!" he growled, moving onto the next net as he dialed a reply.

**Thats bullshit**

Halfway up again, another beep.

**I'm sorry.**

"Don't apologize, dumbass, it ain't your fault. . ."

**Quit sayin that. U dont gotta say that 2 me, ev--**

"BANZAIIIIIII!!"

Ikkaku looked up.

Later on, he would reflect that he should have used the precious half-second he had between the shout and the impact of Iba's bulk to do something more useful than forming a horrified expression on his face -- something like, say, safely restoring his cell phone to his pocket before it was knocked out of his hand and sent careening between the ropes to shatter most spectacularly against the ground some ten meters below. As it was, he could do little else but roll -- and roll, and roll, and tuck his legs in to narrowly avoid decapitating a small child, and roll some more -- until he managed to convince his fingers they were in fact grappling hooks and catch himself before he matched his phone in both location and appearance.

"Iba, _fuck!_" he shouted up at his chortling friend. "Aho! Now she's gonna think I'm pissed at her!"

"Who?" Iba asked, after they'd retrieved the shards of Ikkaku's phone and been escorted from the obstacle course by its furious overseer, an irate woman with one arm who nonetheless managed to be both extremely strong and excessively generous with smacks to the backs of their heads. "That Kurotsuchi chick? Shit, man, I didn't even know you got her number!"

"She just gave it to me the other day. D'you have any idea how _long_ that took? And I can't even actually _call_ her -- it's for 'emergency use only' or some horseshit like that, so that her fuckrag of a father can track her down if she steps one toe outta line, not that he ever lets her get that far."

"So why the hell do you bother, then?"

Ikkaku whirled, his boots stirring up red clay dust. He grabbed hold of the front of Iba's jacket.

"What did you say?"

"I said, why do you bother?" Iba repeated, unaffected by the choleric boy's menacing display, having been faced with worse, and worse plus a shinai at that. "What's so great about this girl that makes her worth all the daddy issues? I mean, yeah, she's cute, but there are cuter. Not to mention easier."

Ikkaku stared him down, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.

"I don't mean _easier_," Iba backpedaled, "just. . .simpler. --Not that I think she's an easy girl in spite of her situation. I mean, she might be, I dunno, maybe that's it, but. . ."

". . .I think," Ikkaku said lowly, "you need to shut the fuck up, right now, before that wagging tongue of yours gets nailed to the roof of your mouth with your teeth."

"Aah, for fuck's sake, Madarame, calm down!" Iba glared, shoving Ikkaku's hand away. "I ain't tryin' to besmirch the girl's honor or anything. I just wanna know what you see in her."

"What I _see_ is you needin' ta mind your own goddamn business an' help me find Yumi. I gotta use his fuckin' phone."

He stalked off in the direction of the gaming booths.

"Che. Whatever, man," Iba mumbled. He retrieved a cigarette from the pack in one of his jacket pockets and lit it before following a few paces behind.

* * *

"So?" Yumichika arched an eyebrow expectantly.

"So. . .I'm humbled," Shuuhei admitted. "And you're kinda fucking scary."

Yumi sparkled, lashes fluttering. "Why thank you, Shuu-chan. I think that may be one of the kindest things you've ever said to me."

"What'll it be?" asked the vendor as he set to rights the eleven-out-of-twelve metal ducks Yumi had managed to hit (compared to Shuuhei's nine). He was a scrawny, freckled man topped by a blond faux-hawk that made Yumichika want to strongly reproof all manufacturers of cheap hair gel everywhere.

Yumi surveyed the prizes, all Sega-themed plushies of varying enormity. He pointed.

"That one."

The vendor unhooked a giant blue Sonic the Hedgehog from the roof of the stall and hefted it with some difficulty over the counter and into Yumichika's arms. Yumi thanked him and cuddled it close. Shuuhei's eyebrows raised, impressed.

"Damn, Ayasegawa. You know, if you're looking for a substitute boyfriend, they make special dolls for that sort of thing."

Yumi's smile turned coquettish. "But I'm not looking for a substitute, Shuu-chan. Or a substitute Shuu-chan, although it does rather remind me of you." He patted the plushie's spiky blue head.

Shuuhei rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, I'm not your boyfriend, so. . ."

Yumi rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so paranoid. It's a festival. Unless this defensiveness stems from jealousy at my having -- to employ one of Ikkaku's more colorful idioms -- _owned your ass_ at Shooting Gallery. . .?"

Despite himself, Shuuhei found a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He placed a hand on Yumi's shoulder and leaned in close to whisper in the other boy's ear, "Trust me, Ayasegawa, you own no part of my ass."

Yumichika's smile widened. He indicated a nearby stall. "Crossbow Shoot? Fair warning, Shuu-chan: I always hit my mark."

Shuuhei shrugged. "Bring it, Peacock. And prepare to eat feathers."

* * *

"Goddamn dumbass kids. I hate this fuckin' festival."

"But, Nee-chan," Shiba Ganju garbled around a mouthful of taiyaki, "if you hate it so much, then why do you volunteer to work it every year? Ain't it enough that the company sponsors it?"

"Baka!" Kuukaku snapped, slapping the fishcake out of her brother's hands. "Because at the end of the night, they let me use explosives."

She grinned. It was frightening.

Ganju gulped, and through sheer force of will kept his eyes from straying to her side, where her right arm used to hang.

Kuukaku toed at the half-eaten taiyaki on the ground. "Eh, where'd you get that, anyway?"

"Hawk," said Ganju. "He's sellin' 'em this year."

"Hawk. You mean Miyamoto."

"Um. Yeah. Him."

His sister sighed and looked to the sky, as if asking God what she had done in a past life to deserve such blood kin.

"Watch the Funhouse a minute," she ordered. "I'm gonna get somethin' to eat."

* * *

An hour later, Izuru picked at a bit of red bean paste under his thumbnail as he waited for Renji to finish showing off at Ring the Bell.

Heaving something between a bellow and a grunt, the redhead swung a large mallet up and around to strike the pivot board at the base of the game. Its indicator shot up along the scale board, but missed the bell at the top by a scant few inches.

"Damn it!" he swore.

The game's operator -- massive, bald, indifferent -- gave him a consolatory smirk.

"Tough luck, kid. We can't all be winners."

Renji glared at the man and fished another two hundred yen out of his pocket. "One more try."

Face determined, he picked up the mallet and swung again. Izuru's eyes followed the indicator up, up, up, and -- _clang!_ chimed the bell at the top, at a resonance that made the blond's teeth rattle.

"Hell motherfuckin' _yeah!_" Renji whooped, punching the air in triumph and narrowly avoiding hitting a passing orange-haired teenager.

"Oi, watch it!" the boy griped.

"_You_ watch it!" Renji barked after him. "Stick to the damn path!"

The boy flicked back a rude gesture, but kept walking.

"Che," Renji muttered. "Asshole."

"Who's an asshole?"

The two boys turned at the sound of the feminine voice behind them. Renji perked up, grinning.

"Rukia! When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago. I took the train in with Shaolin, but she ran into _Yoruichi-sama_" -- the diminutive girl's voice climbed a mockingly besotted octave -- "near the Face Painting booth. Urahara-sensei and Nii-sama were with them, so I demurred."

Renji's eyes widened. "Byakuya's _here?_"

Rukia shrugged. "Apparently."

"Getting his face painted?" asked Izuru.

She gave him a queer look. "Ah, I doubt it."

"Hey, kid," said the game operator to Renji, "you gonna stand there yakkin' all night or are you gonna take your prize?"

Renji absently grabbed the lion plushie from the man's beefy hands, glanced at it momentarily, and then gave it to Rukia. It was a homely-looking thing of the sort found in the bargain bins of 100-Yen Store toy sections, probably not even worth the two hits Renji had swung to obtain it, but Rukia crammed it as best she could inside her purse nonetheless, then grabbed Renji by the arm and headed for the rides.

"Come on. I wanna give you whiplash on the Bumper Cars."

"Aa. . ." Renji distractedly agreed, allowing himself to be pulled along as his eyes continued to scan the festival grounds. Izuru hung back.

"Kira-kun?" Rukia called over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

"Uh, n-no, I. . .uh, bathroom. You guys go ahead; I'll catch up with you later."

She nodded. Renji came to his senses long enough to shoot his roommate a meaningful look.

"Remember," he warned, "if you see Iba coming out, _don't go in._"

Izuru forced a smile. "Yeah, I got it."

He waited until they disappeared behind the Goldfish Scooping station before heading in the opposite direction, with no specific destination in mind, but a very persistent guiding purpose: find Gin.

* * *

_**Young bones groan  
**And the rocks below say:  
"Throw your skinny body down, son!"_

_But I am going to meet the one I love__  
So please don't stand in my way  
Because I'm going to meet the one I love. . . _-- The Smiths, "Shakespeare's Sister"

* * *

**A/N: **_Go, Izu, go! Yesss. I'm still high off of canonically assertive!Izuru & doing the dance of fresh manga.  
_

_Impromptu cliffhanger. This chapter & the next were actually supposed to be another very, very long one, but as an impatient reader myself I hate to keep people waiting, & to break it off here works, so. . .rST still to come. Everything always takes so much longer to say than you think it's going to, you know?_

_This is also where I showcase my obvious Americanness even moreso than usual, with a festival/fairground hybrid. Lazy, perhaps, but my brain can only take so much research in the name of a hobby that's supposed to __relieve stress, & so I'm relying on ye olde trusty particle-board excuse: it's an AU. Just go with it.  
_

_Many, many thanks to my readers & reviewers. That can't ever be said enough. You flatter me to discomposure with your interest & kind words._


	9. Rose Tinted Half Closed Eyes

**IX. Rose-Tinted Half-Closed Eyes**

* * *

"There you are!"

Shuuhei's fingers tightened against the rough orange rubber of the basketball as it slipped from his grasp, imbuing it with an unintended spin that sent it rebounding off the rim of the net and into the well below.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

"Indeed," Yumichika sighed beneath his own.

"Aww." Innocent oblivion glossed Rangiku's pink pout at Shuuhei's loss. "That's too bad. Better luck next time, ne?"

"Here ya go, baller," said the afro'd game vendor, tossing Shuuhei a small stuffed rendition of Ginnosuke the Cat. "You still got four outta five."

Yumichika eyed the plushie with growing disheartenment as it was immediately offered to smooth, polished hands that were not his own. Rangiku cooed appreciatively as she accepted the gift, and Yumi closed his eyes and counted to five. It wasn't her fault, he knew. Ayasegawa Yumichika could no more hate a person for being beautiful than he could the moon for reflecting the sun, besides which, she was a friend, and one of his favorite shopping partners (despite her current, rather regrettable choice of footwear). No; it was with Shuuhei that the problem lay, or -- no. No, the problem certainly wasn't with himself. What a foolish notion. It was insulting even to think it.

"You're alone?" Shuuhei asked, and Yumi tried to ignore the hopefulness lacing the black-eyed boy's tone.

Rangiku shrugged. "For the moment. Sousuke and Isane took the girls to get their faces painted -- clogged pores, urgh, no thank you -- and God only knows where the boys ended up. Gin went to get drinks, though; he should be back soon."

Yumichika's fallen crest reared again to life.

"Marvelous!"

"Yeah," said Shuuhei glumly, "great."

"So have you guys been on any of the rides yet? Gin keeps trying to get me to go in the Bounce House, but I'm not wearing a proper bra for it."

"That's probably the point, Matsumoto-chan," Yumi noted.

"Mm."

They both glanced at Shuuhei, whose gaze had drifted downward and acquired a glazed quality, then back at each other in mutual resignation.

"Anyway, what have you guys been up to? Did Shuuhei win that for you, Yumichika-chan?" She indicated the Sonic plushie.

Shuuhei suddenly snapped to attention. "What? No, I--"

"Guess who-oo!"

A pair of bony, long-fingered hands cupped Rangiku's breasts from behind. She looked down at them, unimpressed.

"Those are _not_ the cups you were supposed to come back holding."

"Oh yeah." Gin, literally fox-faced in a vulpine festival mask, sidled contritely around to her side. "I forgot."

Rangiku's bosom heaved impressively with an exasperated sigh. "Well, regardless, I'm still thirsty. Come on." She led him away by the hand like an errant child. "And don't think you're getting out of buying, either."

"If I buy, you Bounce."

"Gin. . ."

"Wha'? I tease because I love, Ran-chan!"

"Sure you do."

"'s true. Hey, wait -- where'd that come from, Ayasegawa-kun?"

"Shuuhei won it for him."

"I did n--"

"Shooting Gallery," Yumi supplied with a smile.

Gin brightened, his posture improving. "Ooh! Ran-chan--"

"Uh-uh! Drinks first."

"But--"

She held up a finger, forestalling his protests.

"Saa," Gin whined. "Maybe I _should'a_ ridden wit' Izuru. . ."

"Oh, what's the matter? Am I not codependent enough for you anymore?"

"Ehh?"

Shuuhei shook his head as he watched them bicker into the distance. "Life is not fucking fair."

"Tell me about it," Yumi sighed happily, then pushed the hedgehog into Shuuhei's arms and hefted a meter-high Yoshi (his trophy from the Crossbow Shoot -- a luck dragon he intended to give Ikkaku in non-emasculating private) and a comparatively modest Roselia Pokémon (from the Balloon-and-Dart booth) in his own. "Now let's go put these in my truck, and then I want some fairy floss."

"Fine. But if the words 'Merry-Go-Round' leave your mouth tonight, in any context, I reserve full bolting rights."

"Agreed."

* * *

Across the compound, Byakuya sipped warm beer.

The drink was foul, but it had at least proven its (overpriced) worth -- he'd managed to avoid three rides thus far, on the grounds that liquids were forbidden in the immediate vicinity of speedily whirling machinery -- but he was coasting, he knew, on borrowed time. Yoruichi was growing increasingly impatient with his avoidance of this brand of so-called "fun," and it was only a matter of Ferris Wheel rotations before she either grabbed and drained the cup herself, or knocked it out of his hands completely, and probably onto his trousers and shoes. He couldn't decide which would be the more likely offense, but he was leaning toward the latter -- the greater his humiliation, he figured, the more she would enjoy herself.

Leaning languidly against nearby railing, a babysitting Urahara Kisuke suspired.

"You know, you needn't be a stick in the mud just because of your family name, Kuchiki-san. Cheer up, would you? Or else one of these days that little raincloud that hovers permanently above your head will start throwing lightning. No one respects a frizzy aristocrat," he warned in sing-song, wagging an admonishing finger.

Byakuya's features remained glacially inexorable. He took another sip of his beer.

"Y-Yoruichi-sama! _Don't--_"

The two men looked up. The big wheel had been stopped to allow another exchange of alighting and boarding passengers. Near the top of the ride, the orange gondola they knew to be occupied by the gym instructor and the student who'd been magnetized to her side for the past hour rocked precariously, followed by a sharp squeak of protest from the girl and the echoes of Yoruichi's throaty laughter.

Byakuya quelled the urge to roll his eyes. How the mighty had fallen, and all for the sake of the floppy man munching messily on a chocolate-covered banana a meter to Byakuya's left.

Urahara Kisuke: the lowly if brilliant only son of the Shihouin household's widowed head maid, eternally scruffy, eccentric, bred for tricks and not for show; and Shihouin Yoruichi, pedigreed and pedestaled scion to the vast conglomorate empire of Shihouin Industries. Kisuke was a misfit, an outsider, and not even the patronage of Yoruichi's esteemed father had served to make him otherwise. For all his technological inclinations, he was a wrench thrown in the works -- all works -- and Yoruichi had become the vibrant violet hair caught in subsequently malfunctioning gears.

In Urahara, the Shihouin paterfamilias had found the spirit of the son he had longed for, but failed to sire. He'd put the young man through school -- first Seireitei, then MIT -- both because of that bond and in gratitude of his mother's many years of impeccable service to the family; and Kisuke, Shihouin-sama had come to lament, had honored his surrogate father by acting the bastard.

Urahara had been fresh out of university, and Yoruichi two-thirds finished with an orthopedics degree, when Shihouin-sama's surprise visit to his daughter's campus-adjacent apartment yielded a much greater shock than had been intended. "Compromising" was the polite qualifier for the position in which the two young people had been discovered, and both had very quickly learned what they'd previously only suspected to be true: that, in the case of daughters, even -- perhaps especially -- those regarded as substitute sons were never spared a father's wrath. Heartbroken and betrayed, Shihouin-sama had immediately exiled Urahara from the realm of his respect and his championship, and delivered to his deceitful progeny an ultimatum: Kisuke, or disownment.

She'd had to resort to wearing Urahara's clothes for the first two months, before she could again afford some of her own. According to him, she looked very good in boxer shorts, and had only cried the once, that first night, over her loss -- not of her birthright, but of her family's love.

Not that Byakuya himself was altogether that much different; he had merely been more fortunate. He imagined he would likely have ended up in a similar situation (except, perhaps, for the clothes), had his grandfather's disfavoring of Hisana's unfortunate upbringing outweighed the old man's desire for the eventual twenty-eighth generational head of the family business to remain precisely that. No, it had been Byakuya's wife's death, and not his marriage to her, that had truly driven the stake between them.

Oh, he was still the heir, still the one slated for the eventual assumption of the Kuchiki Corporation throne upon the retirement of Ginrei-ojii-sama. . .but while their legal ties remained intact, their familial ones could be termed strained at best, for reasons of mutual disapproval: Ginrei's of the "unsuitableness" of Byakuya's choices in both personal and professional realms -- his adoption by proxy of Rukia, for one; his continued obstinacy in pursuing the "purposeless hobby" that was his teaching career, for another -- and Byakuya's of Hisana's illness being regarded as "punctual," her death "a relief" -- spoken not to his face, of course, but funerals are poor places for one to have loose lips. He doubted the aged man knew, to this day, that he had been overheard. Ginrei seemed to have accepted his grandson's reticence and lack of personable contact as being nothing more than another symptom of his youthful rebelliousness, a thing he had yet to make any hardnosed effort wean; but the time was coming, Byakuya sensed, when all would need to be laid bare, and then. . .

In any case, whatever the resulting outcome, he would _not,_ under any circumstances, end up sharing Urahara Kisuke's undergarments.

"Aiya, that girl. . ." The physics professor shook his head, still staring at the rocking gondola. "The way Shaolin-chan looks at me, I sometimes think my face is in danger of melting off."

"If you are attempting to cheer me with imaginings of your falling victim to physical harm. . ." Byakuya warned, ". . .then by all means, continue."

"Sadist," Urahara sulked. "It's true, though. Yoruichi says she doesn't see it, although I don't know how she could possibly miss it."

"Miss what," Byakuya asked, "the fact that a female has proven immune to your innate suavity and charm?"

"Well, I won't deny that that part's a mildly worrying first--"

"Hmph."

"--but no, I was thinking more along the lines of idolization that borders on indecency, if you know what I mean."

Byakuya frowned at him. "I'm sure I don't."

"Oh, but you must! You were married, weren't you? And you have Abarai-kun for a T.A."

The frown deepened. "What do Hisana and Renji have to do with anything?"

Incomprehension manifested on Urahara's face in the form of an owlish blink. ". . .tell me," he said, "is it a rich kid thing? Do you all just grow up being looked at so often you don't even bother trying to differentiate the stares?"

Byakuya's brow furrowed. Hisana, idolize him? He was ninety-nine percent positive that their first date had been an act of pity, and certainly not on his part. And as for Renji -- tattooed, haphazard, diligent but ultimately dense Abarai Renji -- well, the very idea of it was quite too absurd for Byakuya to give it credence.

". . .if you are implying that either my late wife or my teacher's aid were or are inclined to worship me, I must inquire as to the length of time you have recently spent in Kurotsuchi-sensei's unventilated classroom."

"One hour, but that was yesterday, and the trees were kind enough to stop their dancing by nightfall so that I could sleep."

"That was very generous of them."

"Yes, I thought so, too." Urahara flipped open his ever-present fan with his free hand and began to agitate the air in front of his face as if still attempting to waft away the fumes. "In any case, Byakuya-b. . ." The blond man wilted a little at the sudden acuity of Byakuya's glare. ". . .Kuchiki-san, it might not kill you to lower your nose now and again and examine your 'little person' more closely," he advised, wrapping his mouth again around the banana.

"Are you inherently obscene, or is it a cultivated talent?"

Kisuke swallowed and donned a cheeky smile. "Kuchiki-san, you flirt! You know very well I'm _au naturel._"

"Ahh, he's full of shit," a new voice, ironical and teasing, interjected. "They're implants and he knows it."

Urahara's face lit up like a little boy who had just constructed his first successful peep hole.

"Kuukaku-san!"

He leapt to hug a woman with long, dark, shaggy hair, half held back and sticking out in tufts from a white ball cap, who stood chewing on a fishcake and regarding them with no small amount of amusement. Her jeans were ripped halfway to shreds and stained in patches with grease. Only one of the sleeves on her red shirt was long. Byakuya tried to contain his lack of surprise that Kisuke would be well acquainted with her.

"Yo," she said, eyeing Byakuya up over Urahara's shoulder. "Trying to pick up guys behind Yoruichi's back, Kisuke? Aiming a bit high with this one, aren't you?"

"Random trajectory," assured Urahara, releasing her. "Mine is a chaotic theory. Shiba Kuukaku, Kuchiki Byakuya. My apologies; I lack a trumpet to adorn him with the proper fanfare."

"Kuchiki?" the woman repeated, and looked quizzically at Urahara.

"His grandson," he confirmed. "But try not to hold that against our Bya-kun; he was, as were you, a mere slip of a girl at the time."

"Shiba," said Byakuya, pointedly ignoring Kisuke's slight against his genitalia as a decade-old file in his mental repository opened and dusted itself off. "The taxi company?"

"You mean the one Kuchiki Corp unsuccessfully tried to acquire inside the two months between the death of my folks and my aniki's twentieth birthday?"

"Indeed."

"Then yes, that taxi company."

Byakuya nodded. "I remember you. I was in the lobby the morning of the final meeting. You threw a pearl milk tea at my grandfather's lap as he was getting into his car and then suggested he call for cabs in future if he so enjoyed sticky seats."

"Aa. Although I think I phrased it more economically--"

"And no doubt more colorfully," interjected Kisuke.

Kuukaku smirked. "No doubt. But he deserved it." Her eyes were challenging beneath the vizor of her ball cap, but if it was an argument she was hunting for, she would return home wanting for a kill. Byakuya merely inclined his head in acquiescence to her assertion, and after a moment, her ruffled feathers smoothed.

She popped the last bite of taiyaki into her mouth, wiped a greasy hand on already greasy jeans, and shifted subjects. "Where's my Puddy Tat, Kisuke? I gotta get back to the Funhouse before my idiot little brother somehow manages to burn the place down."

"Oh, she's where she usually is," said Urahara. "About to sink her claws into the back of an unsuspecting canary."

Kuukaku had approximately a nanosecond in which to look puzzled before she jumped at the feel of sharply filed fingernails raking playfully down her back.

"Letting your guard down so easily, Tweety Bird?" Yoruichi chuckled smugly, a slightly shaken Fong Shaolin at her side. Matching black butterflies (young Fong's choice) adorned their left cheeks, courtesy of the Face Painting Booth.

Kuukaku spun around and punched the dark-skinned woman in the arm, grinning. "Bitch. Maybe I just like the feel of your nails in my back."

"Yoruichi-sama is not a bitch!"

"Eh?" Kuukaku bent down until her face was level with Shaolin's heated glare. "Who's this, then, Yoruichi? Your bodyguard?"

"Her fan club," Urahara mumbled under his breath.

"My ninja warrior!" Yoruichi said proudly, crushing the small girl against her hip. "I'm training her to beat all the boys in the next Sasuke competition. She'll be the youngest female ever to have entered -- and won -- the male competition."

An eyebrow disappeared under the vizor of Kuukaku's ball cap. "Is that so?"

"It is," said Fong defiantly.

"Well, you better work hard, then, because I heard a rumor that there's a girl at Karakura High School with similar ambitions."

"What?!" both butterflies exclaimed in unison. Their attention so focused elsewhere, Byakuya saw his chance. . .

"Who?" demanded Yoruichi.

Kuukaku waved her hand dismissively. "Can't remember the name. Something dragony. Ryuu-something, or Tatsu-something. . ."

"Doesn't matter," asserted Yoruichi. "My Shaolin will grind her into the dirt." Fong blushed deeply. "Kind of like I used to do to you, ne, Byakuya-bo? . . .Byakuya?"

The four of them glanced around, but only Byakuya-shaped air occupied the space where he had been standing.

Yoruichi sighed and looked in annoyance at Kisuke, who held up his hands defensively.

"Not my fault. I told you we should have put a bell on him."

* * *

"What time is it?"

"Don't you have a watch?"

The black-haired girl held her arms akimbo as she walked a straight line through the rotating room. "Yeah, but I don't feel like checking it."

"Tch. It's seven to nine."

The arms dropped. "Crap. I promised Orihime I'd meet her at nine by the Swing Carousel."

"You'd better get going, then."

"Aa. I'll catch you later, Kurosaki!" She darted off down the corkscrew-shaped slide that led to the exit of the Funhouse.

"See you, Tatsu-- _umph!_"

"_You_ again?" Renji scowled at the orange-haired boy sprawled on the floor (quickly becoming the wall) of the rotating room. "Still haven't learned to get outta other people's way, I see."

"Oi! _You_ ran into _me,_ dumbass!" the boy snapped, hauling himself to his feet.

"Yeah," agreed Renji, "'cause _you_ were _in my way._ Did I stutter or somethin'?"

"No, but you might when you have fewer teeth!"

"Go ahead and try it, cumquat!"

"Cumquat?" the boy repeated, brown eyes narrowing, nonplussed.

"Yeah, you know -- orange, sour, resembling a testicle. Cumquat."

Cumquat reddened with rage.

"Renji!" scolded Rukia, but too late -- the shoving ritual precedent to all contests of adolescent maleness had already been initiated. . .by the orange-haired boy's foot.

Renji hit the wall of netting just beyond the rotating room and rebounded off of it like an American wrestler, springing into a charge at his citrusy adversary with closed fists.

"Hey, you kids!" rose a gruff voice from the ground. "No fighting! Knock that shit off!"

It was, predictably, ignored.

"Goddamn it!"

Rukia watched as the apish Funhouse overseer began to negotiate the cargo nets with the speed of familiarity.

"Renji, we should--"

Her words were blocked by a mouthful of her best friend's hoodie as the redhead stumbled back into her after a particularly effective kick to his sternum. They fell to the floor in a knot of limbs and a squeak of objection coming from somewhere in the vicinity of her purse.

"Look what you did!" accused Renji.

Seething -- and suffocating -- Rukia smacked him upside the head. "_Him?! You're_ the one who ran into me, you big oaf!"

Renji rolled off of her and onto his hands and knees. "Yeah, because _he_ ran into _me!_"

Cumquat smirked. "Sorry about that, but _you_ were _in my way._"

"_Bastard--_"

"OI!"

The two boys turned to see a young man who resembled nothing so much as a gorilla in a green bandanna barreling towards them with obvious intentions of physical reprimand.

Instincts are powerful things. Ever since his voice dropped, Renji's instinct, Rukia knew, was to pulverize anything of equal or greater testosterone content; but a much older instinct, and one they shared with every child who'd spent time on the streets, was the drive to run when faced with any marginally older and potentially authoritative figure by whom the chances they had done wrong were of sufficient quantity (read: always).

She grabbed his hand, and they hauled ass _on_ ass, down the slide and through the exit gate, as the sounds of argument and bodily impact echoed above them.

* * *

"Not codependent enough?" Gin repeated, looping an arm around his best friend's trim waist. "What's this? Is my Ran-chan, flower of my heart, gettin' jealous of my lil' charge? Is'at why you wanted me ta ride here with ya?"

"Not _jealous,_ no. You can like whoever you want. I just miss you sometimes, that's all. I need my one-on-one Gin-chan-time every now and again. And we _always_ attend festivals together; it's _tradition._"

Behind his mask, Gin frowned at her. "Whaddaya mean, I can like whoever I want?"

"Don't you, you know, _like_ him?" Rangiku asked, brow crinkling in puzzlement. "You've never really bothered with any of the newbies before. _Bothered_ them, yes, but I've never seen one hold your attention the way Kira has."

"Nah," Gin chuckled. It echoed hollowly against the interior of his mask. "It ain't like that."

"Then what _is_ it like?"

Gin shrugged. "I'm his host."

"And?"

"An' what? I'm s'posed ta spend time with him."

"Remember who you're talking to, would you? I know you, Gin. Responsibility holds about as much appeal to you as. . .as sweet potatoes! You avoid it like the plague. But you climb all over Kira like he's a persimmon tree in the middle of autumn."

"My Ran-chan is so poetic. And makin' me hungry. Where d'ya suppose the okonomiyaki booth is. . .?"

"Don't try to change the subject," she scolded, combing a hand through her lustrous hair and causing a few ogling passers-by to bang into trash cans and menu signs.

Gin sighed. "What is it ya wanna hear, Rangiku? I can't just like someone without an ulterior motive?"

"I don't know, can you?"

"I like you, don' I?"

"That's different," she said. "You and me. . .we're _us._ I don't know what Kira's situation was that brought him to Pure Souls, but I can tell what it _wasn't_ -- he's a different kind of damaged, Gin. You can't be relating to him on the same level you do to me. That means you're getting something from him that I can't give you, which doesn't leave a lot of options."

His clever girl. She knew him too well -- or knew too well the parts of himself he had chosen to consistently show her.

No one else: that was their pact. They needed no one else but each other, for affection without desire, for companionship without expectations. She wanted nothing more -- couldn't stomach the thought of anything more -- and he, well, he'd had Sousuke for the other things, if only secretly, specially. It had been easy to keep up the pretense that he craved physical contact only to the same extent she did, easy because it was, to some degree, true.

Since the day they'd met, Gin had found in Matsumoto Rangiku a sort of kindred spirit, a sliver of himself cut and set on the opposing side of a single ring. Like him, she had been wronged. Like him, her innocence had been tainted by the very person she should have been able to trust above all others; but unlike him, the purity of her soul remained unsullied. Unlike him, she was beyond absolution, be it by the virtue of not having required it in the first place, or the fact that she was, being a girl, simply out of reach of Sousuke's sanctifying hands -- or so Gin had reasoned then, before his position as favorite had been usurped by the doll-faced linguist (who spoke in tongues -- _in tongues!_ -- and why couldn't Sousuke see her for the deadly little demon that she was?), and confusion and loss had torn his mind asunder.

Rangiku was a girl, and one whose body, at thirteen, had already possessed more than its share of womanliness. Being thus ensconced in the safety of Sousuke's disinterest, Gin had been allowed to keep her for himself, to show her as much as could be shown of what Sousuke had taught him of love, and the possibilities of touch infused with kindness in place of cruelty.

Not that Gin wasn't a cruel person -- he required absolution, after all, and adored to receive it (hadn't, he hadn't in months and he _festered_-_-_) -- but neither was he a masochist. He was a glutton for forgiveness, not for punishment; the thought of anyone, himself included, hurting his Ran-chan, his sliver-self, sickened him utterly.

He would sooner die.

And that was where Izuru came in.

". . .Gin?" Rangiku quested into his silence.

"Hmm?"

"You're not mad, are you?"

Gin planted a plastic kiss on the top of her burnished head and furled his mind with the frayed ropes of her concern. For some reason, they bit in deeper than usual. His thoughts struggled against them, and were rubbed raw.

"Silly rabbit," he chided her gently, his hidden smile tight. "Ya know we're all mad here."

"It's true, then? He's giving you something I can't?"

Rangiku was good at picking out shades of gray, but there were still certain shades of silver that slipped between her fingers like beads of mercury, and Gin was determined to keep it that way. He knew first-hand that an overabundance of knowledge held a far greater propensity for harm than did a few merciful rations of ignorance.

She didn't know. She couldn't know.

"Who is?"

"Gin!" she whined, smacking him lightly on the arm. "Please don't be like this, not tonight."

"Ran!" he growled back in increasing discomfort, and jerked his arm away. "Be like what? How am I bein'?"

"You _know_ how. What's wrong?"

Everything, everything wrong, everything and yet no longer enough-- "Nothin'. Just drop it, would ya? Whatever's between -- or _not_ between," he emphasized, "me an' Izuru ain't nothin' ya need ta be worryin' your pretty head over."

"I'm not _worried,_ although I'm starting to wonder if I should be. I'm just curious."

He snatched the Ginnosuke plush from her hands and lobbed it into the nearest trash can.

"_Gin! _What the hell did you do that for?!"

"Sorry, Rangiku. That's jus' what happens ta curious kitties."

She gaped at him in disbelief. "You're a real piece of work tonight, you know that?"

"Well that makes two of us!" he sniped. "I told ya ta drop it!"

"No! Not until you tell me why talking about it bothers you so much! That you can still feel that way about someone is a _good _thing! You don't have to be, I don't know, _ashamed_ of it--"

"I ain't ashamed!"

No, not ashamed, never _ashamed,_ but shameful. Without shame, there could be no counterweighting grace. Without sufficient shame, he would be (_had been--_) left alone, alone and unbalanced and those goddamn _ropes_ and she needed to stop, right now, stop fretting at him before the burn became unbearable. . .

"Then what _are_ you?" she demanded.

"I'm--" Strung up with a shortened fuse. Stone-faced and flint-lipped, spraying sparks. She knew him so well but he couldn't let her know _better; _now she closed her hand around a firecracker and if she held on just a little longer he was gonna--

Gin swallowed. His throat felt thick all the way to his chest.

He'd sooner die.

"Gin? Where are you going? Gin!"

He shook his head and blocked his ears, blocked her bewildered voice from his mind as he walked away at a pace that suggested it would turn into a run were she to try and follow him. He didn't slow until he returned to the festival's gaming section, where, after a brief scan of the booths told him that Shuuhei and Yumichika had moved on, he tore off his mask and cast it violently into the dirt.

His fist, he cast violently into the nearest wall, a stream of curses bubbling up from inside of him like bile, tumbling from his lips in a storm of spittle-flecked frustration and vitriol.

Izuru, yes, he needed Izuru, albeit not in the way she thought he did (even though she knew him so well -- too well).

Izuru, his second sliver-self, pretty and pale and sweet and spare.

Rangiku, his better half, and Izuru, his. . .his _other._

His broken half.

He needed Izuru, needed the boy to snap, so that he, Gin, wouldn't have to.

And he needed to be the cause of it, if he wanted to avoid ending up the effect.

Gin wasn't a masochist, but he was just so fucking _desperate_ for forgiveness, and God, Sousuke, what had he done wrong? What _hadn't_ he done wrong, that had rendered both love and justice as blind as Tousen-sensei to his prostrate and penitent form? He couldn't take it, he just. . .it _hurt,_ and Sousuke had _promised,_ he'd--

"Yo, Anger Management!"

Gin ceased his assault on the wall mid-punch.

"Yeah, you. You break it, you buy it, and lemme tell you, the vendor fees for this gig weren't cheap."

He turned to regard the source of his irrupted eruption. The freckled game operator whose booth he'd been laying into was a good head-and-a-half shorter than he was, with a funny blond hairstyle that reminded Gin of a turned-up duck's bill.

"Hey," said the man, "better yet, why don't you fork over a couple hundred yen and take out a few targets? You look like you could do with mowin' somethin' down."

Gin made his way around to the front of the booth. "Shooting Gallery" blazed above a gun-lined counter in bright red neon characters.

He smiled.

"Know what?" he asked.

The operator looked suddenly uncertain, as if he'd just realized that laughter and slaughter were only one letter removed. He took an unconscious step back as the silver-haired boy approached the counter.

"I think ya read my mind. . ."

* * *

Izuru's eyes followed the pendulum swing of the Kamikaze, his ears perked and straining to pick out Gin's distinctive voice from the shouts and high-pitched shrieks emitted from within the ride on its every downward swoop. He waited until its ninety seconds of terror were up and its passengers exited, some shaking, some laughing, but none possessing that singular, sought-after smile.

"Where _is_ he?" Izuru mumbled to himself, moving on with a sigh.

He hadn't gone far when the sight of two small, familiar figures, one bent double and vomiting into a trash can, the other rubbing the sick one's back consolingly, gave him pause. Well, at least now he knew for certain that his wild goose chase wasn't being given for the sake of a nonexistent bird.

"Too many taiyaki?" he asked, once Rin had stopped retching long enough to come up for air.

The twelve-year-old nodded as he wiped his mouth with the napkin Hanatarou had ready for him. "And dango. And okonomiyaki. And -- _hic!_ -- a couple of chocolate-covered bananas. But I think it was the Tornado that did it, really. Centrifugal force. Not good."

"You'll never learn, will you?"

Worry creased Rin's brow. "Oh, I hope not."

Izuru shook his head. _Crazy. . ._ "Hey, have either of you seen Gin?"

Rin looked questioningly at Hanatarou, who shook his head.

"Nope," the ponytailed boy answered. "Not since we got here. But I saw Rangiku-san with Isane-san not too long ago, near the Funhouse. He might've been nearby, I dunno."

"Oi!"

The three boys turned as Rikichi came running. His heels dislodged clods of earth as he braked, bent double and panted heavily.

"We gotta go," he explained between breaths to his bewildered roommates. "Iba-san. . .gonna kill me. . .farted. . .in his face. . ." He pushed himself upright, grinning from ear to ear. "It was _so cool!_ Ikkaku-san sat on his legs, and Renji-san, Renji-san pulled his arms above his head an' stood on his hands, an' I--" The dark-haired boy squatted down and blew an illustrative raspberry. "--and, and it was _awesome._"

Hanatarou blanched. Rin looked awestruck.

"Okay," the latter announced, "we are _so_ sleeping with the desks against the door tonight."

Rikichi nodded, then added as an afterthought, "Oh! Kira-san -- Renji-san's looking for you. He said if I saw you to ask you if you fell in. Fell in what?"

"Um. . .nothing. It's just a joke. Thanks, though, I'll try to find him," Izuru lied.

"No problem," Rikichi smiled, happy to fulfill any errand for his idol, then slung his arms around the shoulders of his roommates and led them away, plotting. "All right, Operation: Fart-Face Evasion has commenced. Rin-kun, you're on supply duty. Snag every snack you can from the kitchen before Iba-san gets home, at least enough to last us until Monday morning. By then we should be able to replenish our stocks with Christmas cake. Hana-kun, raid the medicine cabinet -- something tells me if there's a man-down situation we're gonna need _lots_ of bandages. . ."

* * *

"Finished?" asked Rukia, waiting patiently against a light pole as Renji jogged up, dogged by a cloud of Hiroshima-accented obscenities.

"Yep. And can I just reiterate how glad I am that Sousuke assigned Ichimaru to be his roommate and not me?"

"It does somewhat lessen your chances of waking up to Haineko's litter box dumped on your bed tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. It creates a comfort zone."

They walked along the midway in companionable silence until they reached the kendo exhibition, where an amateur match was taking place upon an elevated stage. Renji stopped, scowling at one of the competitors who bounced around like a boxer attempting to evade his opponent's reach.

"What the hell. . ."

Rukia stood on her toes and jumped, straining to see over the heads of taller spectators. Wordlessly, Renji crouched down and wrapped an arm around her knees, then hefted her up so that she was sitting on one of his broad shoulders.

She blinked.

". . .since when is there dancing in kendo?"

"There isn't," said the short kid standing next to them, alternately glancing at the spectacle and texting on his cell phone. "I told him about Florence Nightingale Syndrome and convinced him that girls can't resist an injured, helpless guy, so he volunteered to show off his, ah, skills. Unfortunately, he's also kind of a coward, so now he's got the order of the thing mixed up and is just embarrassing himself."

"Uh-huh. . ."

Renji looked up at Rukia, who shrugged.

The dancer onstage was subdued with a solid _thwack_ to the top of his helmet from his opponent's shinai. He buckled to the floor with a feeble whimper and was dragged away by one of the referees. Attention still focused on his phone, the short kid wandered over to collect him, bumping accidentally into one of the other onlookers on his way there.

"Ah! Gomen! I wasn't watching where I was going."

The man he'd accosted nodded his head in acceptance of the apology. His dark hair glinted in the light of the paper lanterns strung around the makeshift dojo, catching Renji's eye.

"Hnn," he said, and stared.

"What?" asked Rukia, twisting around. He felt her slump atop his shoulder, disheartened as she caught sight of his distraction. "Oh."

Renji had never seen Kuchiki Byakuya wearing anything but flawlessly tailored Armani -- and perhaps he still hadn't, as Byakuya's clothes, casual though they were, hung as though they'd been sewn with his specific soma in mind -- but either way, Renji had never seen the man look so. . ."relaxed" was the wrong word. Even in a somber gray shawl-collar sweater and dark jeans (a garment the knowledge of which took Renji a moment to digest), Byakuya's air of formal rigidity was unabated. "Out of character," perhaps, but then, despite the redhead's recent weeks spent assisting his history teacher in not uncomfortable but hardly personable silence, Renji had yet to to discover what that truly meant. Even in close company, the man's personality was unyielding to all but the most superficial details. It was like apprenticing an android. Kuchiki-sensei was neat, he was efficient, he was punctual, and he expected no less of everyone around him -- and there he seemed to stop.

Seemed to, but didn't, Renji knew. Couldn't.

"I think we should go say hi," said Renji.

"I've said hi. Well, I bowed a little."

"Okay then, _I_ should go say hi. I mean, come on, I'm his T.A.; I can't just ignore him. That would be disrespectful."

"And we can't have that, can we?" Rukia sighed resignedly. "Go on."

Renji nodded in thanks and allowed her to slide down his torso to the ground. "I'll be right back."

"Yeah, yeah. . ."

* * *

As he walked, Izuru took another pull from Ikkaku's flask, the only silver he'd managed to find at the Funhouse, where it must have somehow escaped the confines of the bald boy's jacket nearish the cargo nets. It was. . .not empty, but it was substantially less full than he had found it.

He ran a finger over the engraved characters for fearlessness, strength and luck, and wondered if their purpose was to infuse whatever liquid the flask happened to contain with those qualities. He wondered just how much of it he would need to imbibe to fill the gaps he had in place of those characteristics. He doubted there was enough whiskey in all the world. As far as holiness went, he decided it was one of the more hellish forms.

He must have circled the entire festival grounds thrice over at least by now, with neither hide nor pale gray hair of Gin in sight, and he was no longer even certain what he would do if he eventually _did_ manage to find his elusive senpai. What could he say? How could he possibly bring up the subject weighting his mind in casual conversation? "Hi, Gin, wanna go on the Freak Out? And don't freak out, but do you like guys?" Or, "I saw Ayasegawa-san watching Hisagi-san eat a hot dog earlier. Are you hungry?"

And if Gin _wasn't_ hungry, if Gin _did_ freak out. . .Izuru felt the knot in his stomach pull tighter. He had no idea how he would handle that, or if he even could. Gin had stolen into his mind, into his. . .his heart, like a prowler in the night. All romantic inclinations aside, the fondness Izuru felt for the older boy punctured him more deeply than he was prepared to acknowledge, like a blade the removal of which carried the chance of his body bleeding out.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself. "Hopeless, stupid--"

"Hey! Look out!"

Izuru glanced down. Lost as he'd been in the throes of his own potential humiliation, he hadn't even noticed the snake until he'd trod on it, effectively splicing its body into forlorn thirds as its tablet head continued to spew yellowish smoke and thick black coils of ash on the ground. Startled, he danced out of the way--

--and pinballed directly into the torso of an unassuming passer-by.

Bony fingers gripped his upper arms to keep him from staggering into the dirt.

"Sumima--" he said automatically, and looked up into the foxlike face of his impromptu bumper, ". . .sen."

Izuru's heart skipped a beat, then raced double-time to make up for lost ground.

How did he _do_ that? How did he always manage to be right _there_ whenever. . .

"Aw, man! You ruined it!" whined a kid to whose group the severed snake belonged.

"Ya know, if ya want," said Gin, "we could find some babies for you ta steal candy from, too."

"N-no, that--" Izuru cleared his throat and struggled to compose himself, suddenly all too aware of heatedness of his cheeks and the sottish indolence of his limbs. "That won't be necessary."

Gin's pale brows drew together suspiciously. He placed a hand atop Izuru's head and bent down so that his face was perfectly level with his kouhai's, then gave an inquiring sniff.

"You been drinkin', Izuru?"

"No!"

Gin looked at him.

Guiltily, Izuru produced the flask.

Gin took it, giving the engravings a once-over.

"Does Madarame-kun know you got this?" he asked.

Izuru shook his head. "No, I fou--"

"Good."

Gin unscrewed the top, tilted his head back and took a long drink. He swallowed, then pulled a face, a shudder rattling its way down his spine.

"Pigeon Ruby, blech! An' here I was hopin' Ayasegawa-kun'd make him put somethin' decent in it. Oh well."

He tucked the flask away in one of the back pockets of his pants. Izuru moved to protest.

"You're not gonna--"

"Borrowin' it, borrowin' it." Gin waved him off, and winked. "Just like you. But I won ya _this. . ._" He reached behind himself, then brought forward an enormous, orange, blue-eyed stuffed kitsune that had been leaning against the backs of his legs. ". . .all by my lonesome at the Shootin' Gallery. Twelve outta twelve," he grinned proudly. "Twice."

Izuru was flabbergasted, unsure if he'd heard right. "You won me. . ."

"Well yeah. See?" Gin flipped the plushie around. "He's got two tails, same as you."

Izuru racked his slushy brain. Unversed though he was in the social mores of dating rituals, he was still fairly certain that winning someone a stuffed animal at a gaming booth was a pastime reserved solely for couples.

_Or one for a parent and child,_ he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Gin seemed to notice his ambivalence. His face fell. "Whassa' matter? Don'tcha like it? You don' like it, do ya? 's degrading, ain't it? 'cause if ya want, I can just give it--"

"No!" Izuru said quickly, grabbing the kitsune by one tail as Gin turned toward the nearby group of kids who were currently lighting a second black snake. "I like it! I like it. I just wasn't expecting. . .thank you."

"You're welcome," Gin beamed.

Awkwardness settled like dust between them -- or rather, on Izuru. He didn't know if Gin was physiologically capable of feeling awkward.

What did this mean? What was he supposed to _do?_ Should he offer to win Gin something in return? Throwing baseballs at tin cola bottles would pose no problem, providing the game wasn't rigged. Or--

"Do. . .do you want to maybe go ride the Ferris Wheel or something?"

Gin shaded his eyes unnecessarily and surveyed the rides a short distance away. His gaze came to rest on something Izuru had failed to notice in his circumnavigations of the festival grounds, erected a little ways beyond the rest of the amusements. It rose out of the ground, tall and thin and needle-sharp, bright at its base but poorly lit at the top, which aided in its semi-invisibility.

It was also full of screaming people.

"Yeah," said Gin. "Or somethin'."

* * *

"Sen. . .Sensei?"

Renji stood up a little straighter, proud that his voice had not failed him despite his taking a good solid minute to internally pep talk it into functioning at all. He worried, though, when Byakuya turned his head and Renji's mouth went suddenly dry, whether or not he had just exhausted the extent of his conversational capabilities. Talking to Kuchiki-sensei _at_ school, _about_ school was one thing; here, Renji felt adrift in a sea of lame lines about the weather and the nutritional content (or lack thereof) of festival food.

"Abarai."

_Your turn,_ Renji thought to himself. _Say something. Anything._

"I, uh. . .I didn't expect _you_ to be here."

Byakuya's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Renji scrabbled to decipher their emotion. Confusion? Offense? Why the hell are you talking to me, I'm your teacher, you tool, you're supposed to avoid me whenever possible?

"You're _allowed_ to be here, o'course," he tried. "It's a free country. Mostly. Heh."

A beat passed, and Kuchiki-sensei only fucking _looked_ at him.

_And he doesn't see a goddamn thing. . .c'mon, Sensei, throw me a bone, here. . ._

Nothing.

Renji suddenly felt as though he may as well have been an unknown smear on the sole of one of the history professor's sixty-thousand-yen shoes. A weak smile lifted the corners of his lips, an automatic reflex of the cocky blustering that had always pushed him like a wave toward the shore whenever life's merciless surf threatened to pound him against the rocky reef of his disadvantages.

_Those being your willingness to beg for scraps and then turn tail like a little bitch and run. . ._ he berated himself. _Who knew a stray dog could be such a pussy?_

"Well, I. . .I just wanted to say hey, so. . .I guess I'll see you Monday. Um. Enjoy the festival."

The smile held through the short bow he gave and almost until he turned around.

"You could do better."

Confoundment washed the last of it away.

"Excuse me?" Renji asked, his brow crinkling, distorting the indellible black lines that adorned it into squiggles.

Kuchiki-sensei looked almost as startled by his own voice as Renji had been, and was he. . .was he _blushing?_ No -- the lanterns were shaded with red paper; it had to be a trick of the light.

"The boy who just competed performed disgracefully," Byakuya elaborated, again facing the stage. "You could do better."

"I think _Rukia_ could do better than that guy," said Renji, feeling the error slip the lead of his verbal filtration system a split-second too late. At the mention of his sister-in-law, whatever color might -- _might_ -- have tinged Byakuya's cheeks scattered like sakura petals in a cyclone. Renji backpedaled furiously. "Wait -- does that mean you've seen me fight? You go to the matches?"

"No."

"Then. . .then how do you--"

"It was a compliment, Abarai, given idly and intended to be accepted in kind."

". . .yes sir. Thank you, sir."

Renji's mind boggled.

Kuchiki-sensei was making excuses for his lame line. Kuchiki-sensei _had_ a lame line.

Kuchiki-sensei was trying to make small talk.

"Mm."

Extremely small talk.

Renji buried his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie to hide the anxious clenching of his fists.

". . .you could, too," he said after a moment. "Do better, I mean. You were captain of the Kendo Club when you were a student, weren't you? The trophies are still in Yamamoto-kouchou's office." He neglected to mention the lengths to which he had gone in order to gain entrance into said office. He still couldn't look Iemura-sensei in the face without smirking. "Do you still keep up with it?"

"When time permits," Byakuya admitted, and Renji was honestly surprised by his answer.

"Really? Where do you practice?"

The history professor did not shift his feet, but a minute change in his bearing indicated a kind of reluctance that Renji wanted but was hesitant to call sheepishness.

"My home is equipped with a private dojo."

Tattooed eyebrows lifted, impressed. "Oh, wow. That's. . .that's really cool. I'd love to see it sometime."

Inwardly, Renji gawped at his own audacity. Did he really just say that? Did he really just insinuate, out loud, a desire to occupy a part of Kuchiki-sensei's personal life?

"Eto. . .so. . ." he struggled to surface from his own unfathomable implications. "We could do it together." _!_ "--Do better together!" he hastily amended. "This exhibition accepts volunteer competitors, right? Why don't we sign up and give people a real show?"

For a moment, Kuchiki-sensei looked as though he was actually considering the offer.

". . .perhaps another time, Abarai."

_At the next festival,_ Renji's brain filled in the blanks. _In a year. When you're gone._

But "Okay," he said, and "cool," and "another time." (And _If you're hoping I'll forget, you've got another thing coming,_ and _I won't let you, either._)

"When, after further training, you will be less inclined to embarrass yourself."

Renji blinked. He rewound and played that clip again.

"Did you just. . .Sensei, was that a _burn?_"

Byakuya's mouth twitched in an upward, alien direction.

Renji's eyes widened.

_Paddle, you moron, paddle!_

"Oh, I see how it is. Pretty big words for someone who's never even watched his enemy fight before." Renji leapt on the board. "All right, Sensei, all right. Another time." He coasted inland. "It's a date." He capsized. "For a duel, I mean!"

Renji's face burned. His gaze melted holes in the toes of his shoes. He surreptitiously searched the crowd for Rukia, his lifeline, his beltwoman, his. . .

. . .his shark-hearted little guppy who had abandoned her post and left him to flounder.

Silence stretched like an elastic band, until Renji was almost afraid to speak, fearful that when it broke it would snap back to hit him square in the face. . .but he also knew that the best way to remove a Band-Aid was to rip it off without allowing the sting to linger.

"So. . .are you, uh. . .are you here by yourself, or did you come with friends?"

"With. . ._friends._"

The way Kuchiki-sensei said the word made it sound like his having close acquaintances was just as strange an idea to him as it was to Renji. He tried to imagine Byakuya in various low-key social scenarios -- hanging out, catching a movie, chillaxin' with his. . .posse -- but every situation that popped into his head was instantaneously upgraded to something hardly low-key and only superficially social. Kuchiki Byakuya did not "hang out;" he commiserated at soirées. He did not "catch a movie;" he attended the theater. And he never, under any circumstances, "chillaxed," with his posse (entourage) or solo (_en seul_); Kuchiki Byakuya was a creature of _leisure._

_But he's here, ain't he?_ Renji pointed out to himself. _His nice shoes are covered in the same dust as yours. He's drinking cheap beer out of a plastic cup, for cryin' out loud! He's not a robot, he's not a prince -- in the traditional sense, anyway -- he's only human; and even if you're just man's best friend. . ._ his thoughts halted in front of an imaginary No Pets Allowed sign.

"Oh yeah? Who with? --I mean with whom, if you don't mind my asking?" he asked, retaliating against the stab of inferiority that threatened to gut him.

* * *

In line for the Swing Carousel, Yumichika sneezed.

"Shuu-chan!" he scolded. "Thinking lewd things about me again. _Honestly._"

Shuuhei blinked in befuddlement. "Bwah?"

* * *

"Shihouin-sensei and Urahara-sensei," Byakuya replied.

Renji looked at him cock-eyed. "No shi-- no kidding? Huh. I never pegged you three as having very much in common, aside from teaching."

"We don't," Byakuya said simply.

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I get that. That's how I choose my friends, too."

Kuchiki-sensei looked at him sidelong. "A. . .burn, Abarai?"

Renji grinned. "Close, Sensei, close. You pick things up quick."

"My scholarly ambitions know no bounds."

_Is that so?_ "Yeah. Mine neither."

A beat passed, one in which Renji was more than a little surprised to find that somewhere during the course of their conversation, Byakuya had begun to walk, and Renji, ever the dutiful mutt, had followed him.

They were clear of the kendo exhibition now. Hell, they were clear of the midway entirely, approaching the narrow field that bordered the river, where a number of festival-goers had already staked out what they judged to be the best spots from which to watch the fireworks. Lawn chairs, blankets and paper parasols sprung up in clusters like a haphazardly planted patchwork garden.

"It's almost time, eh, Sensei?"

Byakuya checked his Rolex. "Fifteen minutes."

"Do you wanna, uh, go ahead and find Yoru-- Shihouin-sensei and Urahara-sensei now?"

"Not particularly. But if you are expected elsewhere, then by all means don't let me keep you."

"No, Sensei, I. . .it's cool, I can stay." _And fetch, and roll over, and play dead. . ._ "Unless I'm bugging you?"

Considering silence drifted again between them. Renji held his breath.

". . .no, Abarai. Your presence is not. . .irksome."

He released it, and covered up the exhalation with a nervous laugh.

"Cool," he said again, and made a mental note to allow the word a lengthy reprieve from his vocabularly sometime in the very near future. But for now. . . "Cool."

* * *

Izuru gulped as the ride's attendant tugged on his seatbelt and the bars overlapping his shoulders to make sure both were securely fastened and in place. Izuru tugged on them again himself, just in case.

"Gin? I don't know if I wanna do this anymore. . ."

"Maa, just relax, Izuru!" Gin smiled, already swinging his long legs in anticipation, the toes of his shoes scraping half-moon patterns in the dirt. "I thought you were inta jumpin' from high places?"

Oh, now that was just plain low. . .

"I thought you said I'd changed my mind?"

"Did I?" Gin shook his head. "Nah, I don't remember nothin' 'bout that. But I know for sure I said we'd go together."

Izuru swallowed hard as the row of seats they were strapped and half-caged into began to rise, gradually at first, until they passed the two meter mark and, without warning, rocketed towards the sky, slamming him down into his seat and his head back against the headrest.

Higher and higher they climbed, above even the Ferris Wheel, until Izuru thought they must have reached a thousand feet at least and then--

--they stopped.

For a moment, the view was spectacular. The festival was laid out before them like a small city unto itself, framed by the larger metropolitan backdrop of Karakura Town proper. People small as LEGO men milled about below.

"San. . .ni. . .ichi. . ." Gin counted down. His hand shot out to capture Izuru's in a death-grip. "Here we go!"

_Ohshi--_

Izuru scre-- he yelled. He was distantly surprised that he _could_ yell, willing to bet as he was that most of his internal organs had become irrevocably lodged in his throat. Cold wind whipped past his ears in a deafening rush. The bars were cutting bluntly into his shoulders. He could feel his waist slipping free of his seatbelt -- fuck, he was going to slide out, _fuck!_ -- and Gin was laughing louder than Izuru had ever heard him, laughing as he lifted their skinny fists like antennas to heaven as they plummeted towards the earth.

And all he could think was, was this what it would have felt like?

Terminal velocity. . .was this what his parents had felt, right before their car smashed into the rocks?

Right before the airbags deployed and in the next instant were slashed to ribbons by windshield glass; before their heads hit the steering wheel, the dash; before the bumper crumpled and became the engine, before the engine became the instrument panel, before the instrument panel became the reason the closed caskets at their funeral had been an incontestable necessity.

It had been over in an instant, he'd been told. He'd been told that they hadn't suffered.

He'd been told wrong, if this was anything like what they had gone through, what they had spent their final moments feeling. Perhaps there had been no pain, but there had been time to _think, _which was perhaps the most punishing fate of all. To realize what was happening, and what was _going_ to happen. . .

It was over in an instant, but it felt like hours before the ride began to decelerate, ever so slightly, in its descent. Before hitting bottom it bungeed up twice to dive into shorter, slower drops. . .

. . .and then all was still.

* * *

"Naa, Izuru, wasn't that _fun?_ . . .Izuru?"

Gin waved his free hand in front of Izuru's wide-eyed and unresponsive face. He frowned.

This would not do. The blond was supposed to _melt_ down, not _shut_ down.

The safety bars lifted mechanically. With some effort, Gin extracted his left hand from the white-knuckled hold in which it was still caught. He unbuckled his seatbelt and, when the younger boy made no move to do the same, Izuru's, then vacated his chair to crouch down in front of his petrified kouhai.

"Iii-zu-ruuu. . ." he quietly beckoned, resting his elbows on the boy's thighs as he peered beneath the shock of pale yellow hair that masked one-half of Izuru's now bloodless face. "Time for wakies. . .c'mon now, other folks wanna ride, too." _An' you're no good ta me catatonic. . ._

Gin pinched one of the boy's knees between his thumb and forefinger and _squeezed._

Izuru returned to himself with a spastic jolt and a yelp made reedy by the breath he had unconsciously been holding. His eyes rolled wildly, frantic as a spooked horse, before they finally settled on Gin's steadily smiling face.

"Ah, good, you're back!" Gin nodded in approval, then called over his shoulder to the wary-looking ride attendant hovering a few paces away, "It's okay! He ain't broke, jus' stalled for a second!"

". . .I am n-never d-doing that again," Izuru said, as firmly as was possible through chattering teeth. Gin only chuckled and ruffled his hair, then stood and tugged him out of his seat. Izuru wobbled, his knees knocking together almost audibly.

Gin laughed. "Hah! I thought that only happened in cartoons!"

"S-so did I," Izuru admitted, looking nonplussed at his rickety legs as he collected his Tails plush from the attendant. "G-Gin?"

"Aa?"

"Give me that g-goddamn flask."

* * *

The last of the whiskey calmed his acute sobriety, and the post-traumatic endorphin rush actually had him feeling not too terrible as Gin hectored him onto further rides set much closer to the ground. Despite Rin's assertions to the contrary, Izuru found centrifugal force to be a welcome relief after that of terrifying gravity -- a thing, he could now readily acknowledge, that he'd been insane to ever desire.

Gin's presence, on the other hand, was a roller coaster of elation and unhappiness. His teasings were no more childishly (endearingly?) cruel than usual, but his moods tonight still seemed especially erratic. He seemed angry about something, but unwilling to admit it, and Izuru didn't know whether to classify Gin's hard but ostensibly playful pinches, his bodily slamming of Izuru against the side of a ride during a particularly sharp turn, as being symptomatic of a schoolyard bully or a little kid pulling on pigtails to show a girl she was liked.

Even so, he couldn't help but enjoy being paid any attention at all by the silver-haired boy, even if it was possibly negative. But there was a certain power in that, wasn't there? An acknowledged propensity for taking risks, a throw-caution-to-the-wind kind of bravery upon which he could draw.

He wasn't a coward. Cowards bowed to their fear, and while the daring did not lack it, they acted in spite of it. He had to know, he _needed_ to know where he stood with this boy, which way was up and which was down. He'd already fallen twice tonight, once for Gin and once with him and if he fell on his face in front of him, too, then, well, so be it.

He could do this.

Gin slurped the last of the watery syrup from his cup of lemon-flavored kakigouri and crunched through the few remaining ice shavings.

"What?" he said sharply, noticing the intense focus of Izuru's stare.

Izuru startled slightly. His hands balled up into fists. He took a breath and opened his mouth.

". . .nothing."

Gin looked at him leerily for a moment, then shrugged and tossed his cup into a nearby trash can.

"Bumper Cars?" he asked.

Izuru made an effort at masking his disappointment with indifference. "Sure."

"Yosh! Let's go!"

Gin grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and hauled him away. Izuru heaved a silent sigh.

Before the night was through, he promised himself, he _would_ do this.

* * *

He couldn't do this.

One round of Bumper Cars and three rather painfully collisive minutes in the Bounce House later found his faith in himself as depleted as his energy levels -- and his time was almost up. The rides were quieting, slowing, and the lights were beginning to dim in preparation for the festival's famed pyrotechnic display. People crowded closer to the compound's river-facing side where, from across the water, the fireworks were to be launched.

Gin and Izuru distanced themselves from the herd and found spot to watch from beneath a nearly barren maple tree. Izuru sagged exhaustedly against its trunk, and watched as its last brown leaf shivered violently in the breeze before it finally twisted off and fluttered, spiraling, to land on the toe of one of his sneakers. Gin, who'd dropped down to sit cross-legged at his feet with the Tails plush occupying his lap, picked it up by its stem and began to twirl it between his fingers.

"Think it'll snow soon?" he asked. "Think we'll have a white Christmas, like in that one song, whassit called. . ."

"'White Christmas?'"

Gin snapped his fingers. "That's the one! Anyway, d'ya think we'll have one?"

Izuru watched the spinning leaf, and began to feel a little dizzy. He sat down next to Gin amongst the chilly roots.

"I don't know. I've been avoiding thinking about it, to be honest."

"About snow?"

"About Christmas."

Izuru knew the question was coming even before Gin posed it. He wondered if that was why he'd mentioned his reluctance in the first place, so that it would be asked after, and its scab picked smooth. He wondered, more and more often, who was baiting whom these days.

"Why? Did your family make a big deal outta it or somethin'?"

Izuru shrugged. "Not really."

"Then how's it gonna feel different from any other day?"

Another shrug. "It just is. Didn't you. . .did you ever have a family?"

The leaf met its crunchy demise within the confines of Gin's fist.

". . .nope," he said after a minute. "Not one worth mentionin'. --Listen!"

It began slowly, a sound like the low the thub-dub of a sleeping heart -- the commencement of the fireworks ceremony, inaugurated by the distant beating of taiko drums.

"It's starting!" said Gin, and leapt to his feet, then pulled Izuru up after him. They moved forward a few steps until their view of the sky was unhampered by the stark black branches of the maple tree.

The rhythm of the drums increased, becoming more complex as a percussive melody began to emerge from the bassline to be joined by the high, sweet birdsong of lighthearted shinobue. Shrill squeals pierced the air as multiple streaks of light blasted toward the heavens from across the river, looking momentarily like falling stars in reverse before they exploded into shimmering saffron coronas and crimson peonies against the dark canvas of the sky.

"Wow," Izuru whispered.

"Pretty, ain't they?" Gin asked, and Izuru almost jumped out of his skin at the closeness of his voice. Their noses nearly bumped when Izuru turned his head to find Gin's chin all but resting on his shoulder.

Flushed and flustered, he looked away.

"The yellow ones," continued Gin, his breath ghosting hot against Izuru's neck, "get their color from sodium chloride, while the red ones, they're made from lithium carbonate, the same stuff shrinks prescribe ta treat mania. Ain't that funny, how the same chemical salt'll make one thing blow up, but keep another from doin' the same?"

"Funny. . ." Izuru echoed. "H-how do you know all that?"

"I read it on the back o'the bottle," Gin shrugged. "Heh, nah, I'm only jokin'. I like things that go boom. That's how I know."

As if to demonstrate, he raised his arm and whistled in time to the rise of a firework, his closed fist following its path before spindly fingers splayed against an explosive backdrop of glittering blue and green.

"What do you want from me?" The words blurted from Izuru's mouth, phrased of their own accord, before he could stop them. Immediately he bit down on his traitorous tongue, but the damage had already been caused.

Behind him, Izuru felt Gin tense and tilt his head to face him. "Beg pardon?"

"What. . .I-I mean. . ." Oh, hell, he was doing it -- he hadn't meant to, not like this, but it was happening regardless and the words were already brimming again against his lips and what was that English phrase? In for a penny. . .

He took a step forward. Goosebumps prickled to life on his neck at the sudden chill.

"I mean, what do you want from me?" he repeated quickly, before his bravado could fade. "You, you just. . .I see you all the time, even when you're not. . .you're everywhere, every time I turn around, a-and I don't know what you expect, I don't know what you _want. . ._"

* * *

Gin's fingernails scratched unconsciously against his palms as his anticipation flared. He watched the blond shift antsily from foot to foot, arms hovering at his sides as if to maintain his balance, as if fighting the urge to flap.

Izuru spun around to face him, blue eyes imploring, like a hunted thing finally cornered.

Gin took his time in responding, a careful, sidewinding tread.

"Ya make it sound like you're scared o'me."

"I am." Izuru licked his lips, bit them nervously. "I'm a-afraid that you'll. . ."

Gin swayed, stepping forward to close the gap between them, intimate and intimidating. "That I'll what?"

Their foreheads were nearly touching. Silver and gold strands, Gin's shaggy bangs and Izuru's asymmetric forelock, brushed against one another as all personal bubbles burst.

_Burst, burst,_ Gin silently urged. _Snap. Crackle. Pop._

"You're shiverin', Izuru. Ya cold?"

"No," the boy breathed, the scent of whiskey heavy on the word. The drop tower had surely done its part in the augmentation of the boy's fragility, but if Gin had known that Izuru's fear required only the emotional intensifier of liquor to tipsy him over the edge, he would have pilfered the bottle of scotch residing in Sousuke's nethermost desk drawer _weeks_ ago, would have made the blond a proper drink instead of tea that very first night and--

--Gin froze, eyes flying open at the sudden, soft and insistent press of Izuru's lips against his own.

He pulled away, and for the second time that night, Izuru saw red, a bright and startled garnet, rich as blood, defiantly lively and lovely against so much deathly pale. . .

. . .and then it was gone, curtained again by squinted lids, and the realization of what the hell he had just done dawned on his face.

* * *

_And when I squinted  
The world seemed __**rose-tinted  
**And angels appeared to descend__  
To my surprise  
With __**half-closed eyes  
**__Things looked even better  
Than when they were opened. . ._ -- Depeche Mode, "Waiting for the Night to Fall"

* * *

**A/N:** _Yeah. Who didn't see the Tails thing coming at the first mention of Sonic. ;) Further notes next chapter. --Oh yeah, & the "lifted their skinny fists like antennas to heaven" line was taken from/pays homage to the recently defunct band Godspeed You! Black Emperor, one of my favorite groups. Sigh. They will be missed. :\  
_


	10. Anvil Hands and a Bumblebee Mouth

**X. Anvil Hands and a Bumblebee Mouth**

* * *

Renji's eyes danced with pink light, mirroring the petals of a dahlia display, but it was on the periphery of his vision that his attention resided.

Kuchiki-sensei stood statue-still, save for the slight riverside breeze that caught his hair like a black pennon topping a tower of white marble. His skin reflected the fireworks' rosy glow like a sex flush, and every time the wind stirred south, Renji breathed in deep, hoping to catch a whiff of the soft, almost flowery musk that trailed the man whenever he brushed past Renji's desk in class or reached across his own to hand his teacher's aid a stapler, a paperclip, a sheaf of essays to be graded.

And tonight, Renji marveled, tonight they had spoken at greater length than they had in all the weeks he'd been assisting the history professor. Tonight, a door had been opened -- not just a flap for the admittance of pets. Renji couldn't quite put his finger on it, but just as he had come to regard Kuchiki Byakuya as being Only Human, he felt, in some way, that the gesture was being returned. Despite his compulsive self-deprecation (for which his ego so valiantly strove to compensate), he felt as though he was finally being seen as Human After All.

It felt good. It felt damn good, and Renji hoped dearly that whatever had inspired Byakuya to lift the vizor on his armor would carry over into the classroom on Monday afternoon, because it still wasn't enough -- it was an improvement, but it wasn't enough to be noticed as a peasant on the ground. It wasn't enough to be offered a bag of gold pieces, easily spent, out of charity, just as it was no longer enough to play the bandit, unseat the noble and make off with his horse. Renji knew he would never be a lord in his own right, but nor was he content to be the serf of any man, least of all this one. To stand on equal footing with Kuchiki-sensei had been his original goal, and it still held true, if for slightly altered reasons. Whether or not Yumichika was correct in his assumptions of Byakuya's "conventions," it was imperative that Renji greet him on a mount of his own as a ronin at least, even if that mount did nothing to facilitate the touching of mouths. Renji could accept being stigmatized, but he would not, could not suffer being ignored.

"Y'know, Kuchiki-sensei. . .I know I thanked you, for giving me the T.A. position an' all, but I just wanna say. . .I want you to know that I. . ."

It seemed beyond possibility that Byakuya could stiffen further, but the straight lines of his shoulders somehow managed to align themselves into perfect 180° angles that underscored a bolt of movement beneath a maple tree a few dozen meters behind him, a flash of platinum made brassy in the sulfuric light of a spider shell.

". . .I. . .I'll be right back, excuse me, Sensei. . ."

* * *

Izuru's train of thought wrecked, with few survivors.

Oh, God.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God, he'd kissed. . .

The alcoholic glow of his cheeks brightened with shock and automatic shame, heated with. . .with something _else._ Whiskey wasn't liquid courage; it was liquid _stupid_ and he'd fucking _kissed. . ._he'd _kissed Gin._

And Gin. . .Gin was. . .

Izuru hadn't known, up until now, that a person could glare with their eyes shut, but there was no mistaking the furious quality of those narrowed slits, of the V-shaped crease between Gin's brows and the hard flat line of his mouth. Izuru had seen that look before, and oh, God, he realized, oh, _shit_ -- he'd thought when Gin had stepped close it had been an invitation but it wasn't, Gin _wasn't--_

The air rushed from his lungs and his head snapped back against the bark as he was slammed bodily up against the tree.

"I'm sorry!" Izuru choked against the knuckle Gin had buried in the base of his throat, where the older boy's left hand was fisted in the collar of his jacket.

Gin's right hand breezed past his face to strike the maple with two loud cracks that sounded sickeningly like the breaking or dislocation of a finger bone.

"You shouldn'a done that, Izuru."

"I know, I know I-I. . ." Izuru stammered, feeling his own pulse flutter hummingbird-harsh and fearful underneath his senpai's fingers. "I didn't mean. . ."

* * *

Gin's body felt rooted in place, while inside, his mind was reeling.

It was as though someone had ripped the apocalypse right out of the Revelation.

Izuru had kissed him. Not kicked or cried or cowered or contended, but fucking _kissed_ him.

This. . .was _not_ the explosion he thought he'd engineered.

He'd misjudged. It _was_ like punching a tree -- some of the bark flaked off, but so did some of the skin on his own knuckles, because Izuru wasn't rotten -- he was _petrified,_ and now there was blood on the wood and splinters in Gin's hand and it _hurt,_ but not in the way he was used to hurting.

He _had_ been bored by this boy. His bomb had gone off, and he'd been shot through with shrapnel.

This was wrong, it was all wrong.

In the distance, fireworks resonated like shotgun blasts aimed at the stars, and Gin felt something click into place like the drawing back of a hammer on a gun. The pounding beat of the taiko drums was drowned out by the surge of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He'd been _wrong._

Izuru's Adam's apple bobbed hard against Gin's bony knuckle as the younger boy swallowed, looking ready to cry.

"Gin, p-please, I didn't mean anything by it, I just. . .I'm so--"

"Do it again."

"--sorry, I. . ." Saucer-wide eyes reflected the red and blue lights blossoming against the sky. ". . .what?"

"Do it again," Gin demanded, ignoring how the hiss came out more like a whisper, how closely the order resembled a plea.

Izuru's breath hitched as Gin's fist transferred from tree to flaxen strands and gripped them firmly. His other hand released its hold on Izuru's jacket and trailed down to the blond's waist, worked under the fabric of his shirt until cold fingers dug firmly into hot skin.

Izuru's gaze flickered back and forth, searching Gin's face uncertainly.

And then the slight, upward inclination of his head, and the settling of that gaze upon Gin's mouth; then the tentative parting of moist lips, the scent of whiskey, and the lowering of heavy lids; and then. . .then. . .

* * *

_. . .?softandsharpandsilverand__**Gin**__--_

Izuru was kissing Gin. He was _kissing Gin_ (in public, no less, and oh, fuck, was he doing it right?); Is-he-or-isn't-he? and Gin _was,_ he _was,_ and he was _kissing Izuru back_ (had to be, had to be doing it right, if Gin was responding so ardently) -- kissing him breathless, like a backdraft thieving oxygen from a crack beneath a door.

* * *

Angelic Izuru, other-broken-wrong-and-blushing, nameless pent-up smoldering _something._

Was this the burn Sousuke had intended for him all along? This tongue, exploring Gin's mouth with the no-holds-barred eagerness of inexperience; these hands, motionless but holding tightly to the fabric of Gin's coat; this heat, this fever-pitch and thin brimstone-skin stoking fire in his belly, pumping napalm through his veins. . .

Or could Izuru have been another, any other? Had Gin simply been hungry for so long, so starved for attention that anyone would have felt like this, would have tasted this good? For some people, Hell is merely the absence of Heaven, the denial of Eden. Was this divine providence, or would any fruit but peaches have sufficed? He wanted to say yes, he wanted to. . .wanted. . .but oh, Jesus, this boy, this _boy. . ._

Gin hooked a thumb into the waist of Izuru's low-slung skinny jeans and tugged him close, swallowed his gasp as his groin was pressed firmly against Gin's own. Izuru hummed a quiet whimper into Gin's mouth, his hips rocking reflexively forward at the contact, seeking further friction between the layers of thick denim and corduroy that separated their bodies.

_You'd make a terrible savior, Gin._

Terrible. Abominable. Godforsaken.

And oughtn't that god to have known what always becomes of fallen favorites and serpents and temptation and trees? He who had taught Gin the correlation between bad things and good graces, who scented thorny crowns with roses -- oughtn't he to have known?

_Sometimes a person simply needs to be touched, even if they don't know it. Even when they feel as though there may be nothing worse in the world than the hands of another upon their skin, because unkind hands have been all they've ever known. But it doesn't have to be that way, Gin. It doesn't have to hurt. I promise. No, no -- no hitting. Here. . .shhh, shhh. . .no more tears. No more tears from now on, only smiles. I promise, Gin, my sweet, wonderful boy, my smart boy. Close your eyes. Let me show you. . ._

"Oh you have gotta be _shitting_ me."

* * *

Izuru jerked back in alarm at the slur, so startled that the back of his head bumped again against the trunk of the tree. He looked over Gin's shoulder to see Renji standing a few feet away, disgust and confusion tattooed on his face just as clearly as the tribal markings inking his brow.

Oh crap.

Gin didn't seem to find the situation nearly so discomfiting. Izuru's hands had dropped from his jacket, but Gin made no move to extricate his own from the blond's hair and slender waist.

"Abarai-kun," he drawled, his tone its usual lubricious mix of wariness and nonchalance, "is there somethin' we can help ya with?"

"Yeah, there's somethin'," snarled Renji. "You can get the fuck away from him, for a start."

"No," said Gin, leaning possessively closer, firmly pinning Izuru against the tree. "Don' wanna. I think I like 'im right where he is. Think he likes bein' there, too."

Renji looked doubtfully at his roommate. "Kira?"

Izuru opened his mouth, but only a small choking noise came out. He swallowed dryly and tried again, "A-Abarai-kun, I. . ."

"Oh I can't fuckin' believe this!" Renji exclaimed -- with entirely more drama than was necessary, Gin thought -- and raked a hand through his long red hair. He was silent for a moment, glancing around as if expecting an answer to slither upon him like a snake in the grass, then seemed to come to a decision, and stalked forward. "Come on," he ordered, reaching for Izuru's forearm. "We need to talk."

Gin slapped his hand away. "I said _no._"

"I don't give a shit what you said, I wasn't talkin' to you!"

"Careful, Abarai-kun," warned the fox-faced boy with a taunting smile, "not givin' a shit when folks say no sounds like a rapist's mentality."

Renji's fist connected with Gin's jaw with a resounding _thock._ Gin's head snapped back, but he didn't stagger; instead he used the momentum of the blow to swing his long body around in a low roundhouse kick to Renji's midsection. Winded, the redhead dropped to the ground. Gin was on him like a shot, teeth bared in a growling grin, fists flying at Renji's face with a quickness that spoke of no hesitation whatever in his intent to harm his vict-- his opponent.

_It's like he doesn't do it so much for our sake as it gives him an excuse to. . ._

Izuru wondered if this was what Rin had meant when the ponytailed boy had stumbled through his description of Gin's inconsistent nature on Izuru's second day at Pure Souls. It was chilling, and yet. . .

A cartilaginous crunch anchored Izuru's mind again to reality. Blood poured forth from Renji's nose, striping his cheeks like warpaint before eventually blending into his hairline.

"Stop it," Izuru said, the words swallowed up in the boom of a hammerbomb as Renji managed to knock Gin off-balance with a knee-drive to the silver-haired boy's back. For a minute, they grappled aimlessly. Both were roughly the same height, and evenly matched -- although Renji had the weight advantage of ten or so kilos, Gin was more flexible, and slippery as an eel.

"Stop," Izuru repeated, louder this time. "I said _stop it!_"

He grabbed Renji, who had maneuvered himself on top of a thrashing Gin, by one shoulder and the hood of his sweatshirt, and tried to haul them apart, to little effect. He _really_ needed to start eating more. . .

Izuru wasn't certain at first if he was pulled or thrown away from the scuffle. It had, in fact, been a little of both, as Ikkaku, Iba and Shuuhei all three arrived to seize one body apiece and forcibly break up the fight.

"Okay," Ikkaku demanded, holding a straining and panting Renji's arms so tightly behind the redhead's back that his elbows threatened to meet, "what the fuck is goin' on and why the hell wasn't I invited?"

"Invited?" asked Gin, who'd immediately slackened when he'd been dragged to his feet and thus rendered superfluous Iba's grip on his shoulders. "Why Madarame-kun, I didn't know you swung that way."

"Eh?"

"I caught Fox-Face over there dry-humping Kira against the tree, tryin' to suck the tongue right outta his mouth," explained Renji in a thickening voice, his broken nose freely streaming scarlet onto his hoodie.

Iba's hold on his roommate became nonexistent. Gin glanced over his shoulder and blew the mustachioed boy a kiss.

"Eh?" Ikkaku said again, frowning between Izuru and Gin. "Okay, so?"

"Whaddaya mean, _so?_" Renji balked, struggling to twist around and face the skinhead.

"I mean _so!_ As in, _so_ the fuck what? There's no accountin' for taste, sure, but if that's what the kid wanted--" Ikkaku paused, looked at Izuru. "Ne, Kira, that _is_ what ya wanted, right? No funny business goin' on?"

"N. . .no," answered Izuru. "I mean yes! I mean. . .I kissed him first."

"You _what?_" Renji gaped. "For fuck's sake, Kira, just how drunk _are_ you?!"

"Abarai, what's your deal, man?" asked Shuuhei, releasing the red-faced Izuru as if he'd only just remembered he'd been holding onto him. "I mean, yeah, none of us particularly _like_ the guy -- no offense. . ." He shrugged at Gin, who paused in sucking bloody knuckles to shrug in turn.

"None taken."

". . .but that doesn't mean Kira-kun's not allowed to."

Renji looked as though he might start frothing at the mouth in frustration. "Oh for-- _he's an asshole!_"

"Well, so are you!"

As one, the group turned to regard Izuru in surprise. Even Ikkaku's grasp on Renji faltered, and the redhead yanked his arms free, but remained standing where he was. Mahogany eyes glowered darkly at blue.

". . .what did you say?"

Izuru's gaze darted uneasily around the semi-circle of rapt attention his outburst had drawn, but he squared his narrow shoulders, took a breath and resolutely raised his head.

"You heard me. You're such a hypocrite. You've done nothing but make assumptions about me since the moment I got here! Gay, straight, who's worth my friendship, who thinks what about me and what I should think about them, when the truth is you have no _idea_ who I am or what I might be looking for!"

"Well if it's your _colon_ then I think you might've passed it, if your head's that far up your ass! Damn it, Kira, I'm just tryin' to help you--"

"Do what? Help me do what? Be more like you? Because let me tell you, I got enough of that from my parents, and look at what happened to _them._"

Renji blinked at him. "Are you. . .are you _threatening_ me?"

"No! Of course not, I. . ." Izuru sighed and angrily pushed his forelock out of his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing--"

"Hah! That much is obvious!"

"--but that doesn't mean I don't know what I want!"

"How can you, when you don't even know what you're getting yourself into?! He's leading you on, moron! Probably right off a fucking cliff! He fucks with people's heads! I thought you would have understood that by now after the way he's been fucking with _yours!_"

"No, _you_ don't understand -- I don't _care!_ There's more to it than that! There's more to him, and more to me, and if he wanted to lead me off the edge of anything he could have done it already! I was ready to kill myself when I first got here! I was inches away from doing it, too, but guess who talked me down?"

"Ya mean it wasn't Abarai-kun an' his infinite wisdom?" Gin hazarded amidst a machine gun spattering of fireworks.

"No," said Izuru as they fizzled, his gaze leveled upon Renji's shocked face, "it wasn't Abarai-kun."

"You. . .you were gonna. . ." the redhead trailed off, then shook himself and began again, "So. . .so what, you think you owe him something now? Is this some backwards bullshit honor thing -- you think your life is his to use as he sees fit? Are you sure _he_ doesn't think that?"

Izuru rolled his eyes. "Abarai--"

"No. You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck this, fuck you. . .all of it. But when he breaks your heart. . ." Renji shook his head, radiating disdain. He turned to Iba. "I'm stayin' at Rukia's tonight. Tell Sousuke, would you?"

He stormed off without another word, wiping ineffectually at the blood that stained his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hell with that!" Iba called after him. "I'm stayin' at Yumichika's!"

"Are you now?"

"Er. Please?"

"Oi, Iba," Ikkaku pointed out, "you realize you'll only be exchanging rooming with one fag for rooming with another, right?"

". . .oi, Hisagi-san, can I borrow your couch again?"

Yumichika sighed. "I do have a guest room, Tetsu-san. Seven of them, in fact. Well, six if you discount Ikkaku's. Honestly, sometimes I don't know why I bother being so generous to you idiots. . .Kira-kun, Ichimaru-kun, are you coming?"

"You sure that's somethin' you should be askin' them right now?"

"Do you want that room or don't you?"

". . .sumimasen."

"Nah," replied Gin. "We'll ride home wit' Sousuke. I'll mention ta him about Abarai-kun an' Iba-han."

"Splendid. And thank you for the night's entertainment. This has been the most diverting festival I've been to in years."

"Oh, happy we could oblige." Gin flashed him a gracious smile. "Ah! Madarame-kun! Reckon you'll be wantin' this back." He fished the flask from his back pocket and tossed it to Ikkaku, then waved. "Bye-bye now!"

Ikkaku stared down at the flask as the group meandered in the direction of the parking field. "How in the hell did he. . .?"

He shook it experimentally. A few drops rattled within.

"Che. Figures. Sneaky bastard."

"Man," said Shuuhei, "from the way Abarai carried on back there, you'd think _he_ liked the kid. . ."

Yumi's smirk carried smoothly over into his voice, "Oh, Shuu-chan. As in so many other things, you fail to hit the mark completely. I hope that's not an affliction that extends to the bedroom. I have six of those still available for you to occupy tonight, you know, if you would care to make the drive home a non-stop affair."

"Six? But if Madarame and Tetsuzaemon are both staying over, that only leaves five of them open."

"Yes."

"Then. . .how do you come up with. . ."

"Yes?"

". . .make a layover. And _don't_ -- don't shorten that word. . ."

* * *

Gin made his way over to Izuru. The blond was backlit by a bouquet of dandelions and staring pensively in the direction in which Renji had wandered off.

"You okay?" he asked.

Izuru looked at him. A nervous smile tugged at his lips. "I'll live. How's your hand?"

Gin glanced down and splayed his bruised fingers in the same way Yumichika did when examining his nails. He curled them experimentally. "'s fine. Finger popped back in again soon as it popped out."

Izuru cringed, and then-- "Here, you've got. . ."

He lifted a hand, hesitated, then followed through, rubbing timidly with the pad of his thumb at a smear of Renji's blood that had dripped onto Gin's cheek. Gin nuzzled his face into the warm, soft palm like a cat.

A cat. . .

He took up the paw of the Tails plushie in one hand and Izuru's hand the other, and led the younger boy hurriedly back toward the gaming booths just as the fireworks' finale was reaching its crescendo of flowering chrysanthemums and kamuro sparks.

"C'mon, I gotta get somethin'. . ."

* * *

Renji's adrenaline rush had unfortunately ebbed by the time by the time he located his pint-sized concierge, leaving only revulsion and the mother of all throbbing headaches to contend for ownership of his senses. At the shock of spiky orange hair that appeared to be talking to her, revulsion began to break away from the pack and take the lead, jockeyed by Renji's swiftly renewing sense of outrage. Twice in one night was just. . .well, two much. And to think that the evening had been going so _well. . ._

"Please tell be I'b idterruptig sobethig," he growled with as much menace as he could muster through his congestion. The napkins he'd swiped from the okonomiyaki vendor had long since grown sodden and been discarded, leaving him with no recourse but to hope for speedy coagulation.

"Renji. Finally finished kissing Nii-sama's-- holy hell, what happened to you?!" Rukia exclaimed upon sight of his no doubt puffed and mangled-looking face.

"Doe't ask."

"Are you okay?" She at least had grace enough to look embarrassed when he _looked_ at her. "Sorry. Here. . ." She dug a packet of Chappy-print tissues out of her purse and handed it to him. Renji accepted it with mute gratitude, took a few and dabbed gently at his nose.

"Wow," said the tangerine. "That blows, man."

"Ya thi'k?" Renji snapped.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I was kinda hoping I'd get to be the one to do it. . ."

"Ichigo!" Rukia admonished him, glaring. "You shouldn't be cruel to injured people!"

"Ichigo?" said Renji. "Your dabe is fuckig _Strawberry?_" Strawberry, cumquat, tangerine. . .any way you put it, Renji decided, this guy was a fruit.

"Oi! You want a busted jaw to go with that nose?!" Berry-san asked.

"You want one da batch?!" Renji countered.

"Knock it off, both of you!" Rukia elbowed her way between them -- carefully, on Renji's side, so as not to get blood on her sweater. She tugged him down by his hair so that she could more closely examine the damage to his face, ignoring his hiss of pain at the sudden jostling. She grimaced. "Eugh. . .Ichigo, you said your dad was a doctor -- do you think you could find him and ask him to take a look at this? Please?"

The strawberry sighed and endeavored to look as inconvenienced by the request as possible. "Aa, I guess. I'll be back in a minute."

He took off for further down the riverbank. Renji watched him go, then eyed Rukia suspiciously.

"So wha' were you doig with _hib?_"

"_Talking,_" she said firmly, glaring a little. "That lion-thingy you gave me fell out of my purse when you squashed me during your chest-beating session in the Funhouse, and Ichigo was kind enough to find me and return it, and to tell me he was sorry for pushing your fat ass into me."

"Tch. Sure 'e was."

She gave his hair a pointed yank.

"_Ouch!_ 'ey! You should't be cruel to idjured people! What about Floredce Dighti'gale Sy'drome?!"

"I've been vaccinated against it. And anyway, injured people shouldn't be jackasses to people who are trying to help them. Two fights in one night is overdoing it a little, don't you think? Who did this to you, anyway?"

Renji averted his gaze, half in anger and half in shame. "Ichibaru."

Rukia's eyes widened. "_That_ slimy bastard did this? Did you tell Aizen-san?"

"Doe. It would't do ady good. I threw the firs' punch."

"How come?"

"I said doe't ask. Does't batter dow, adyway. Jus' doe't expect hib a'd Kira to be eatig lunch with us agaid adytibe sood."

Confusion knitted Rukia's brow, but any further prying was for the moment intercepted by the return of the ever-scowling Berry-san dragging a semi-conscious man by the belt of his dark blue kimono. The carrot-top (who was really his own sort of self-contained produce stand, thought Renji) deposited his burden in a heap at their feet, and a bleary, beery brown eye cracked open in a scruffy face flushed with more than one round of festivities. Renji and Rukia peered dubiously down at the man, who leered openly up at the latter.

"Ah Ichigo, you have made Tou-san very proud," he appraised, "and positioned him very fortunately--"

"Pervert! Not her!" Berry-san groused, planting a foot on his father's face and squishing his head in Renji's direction. "_That _one!"

". . .ah. Hmmm." The man motioned for Renji to come closer. Renji hesitated and looked between Rukia and her fruity acquaintance, who gestured boredly for the redhead to get on with it already. He knelt gingerly down on the grass. The odd man squinted at him for a few seconds, then reached for the off-center bridge of Renji's nose and--

Even Berry-san looked impressed by the volume and creativity of the expletives that showered from Renji's mouth, little fireworks of profanity unto themselves.

Renji kept very, very still and squeezed his watering eyes shut as he waited for the pain to diminish to something approaching a manageable level. It took a few minutes.

"Um," he heard Rukia say. "Thank you very much, but it might be a good idea for you to not still be here when he can move again."

Good girl.

"Mm. Ice it for a day or two until the swelling goes down, and have him take a couple Bufferin for the pain when he gets home. If he has any difficulty breathing from his nose, a decongestant may help, but if it doesn't look any better in three days, have his primary physician take a look at it. Or in other words," the man's tone seemed to have reached its summit of professional sobriety, and was now quickly rolling back downhill into drunken prurience, "take two of these and call Ichigo in the morning! Teeheehee!"

Berry-san spluttered with rage. "Oyaji!"

There was a whumping sound, followed by the abrupt surceasing of giggles and the clearing of a throat.

". . .sorry about him."

"That's okay," said Rukia. "Thank him again for me -- us -- when he wakes up. And thank you, Ichigo, for your help, and for returning the. . .whatever it is. And I'm sure Renji's grateful, too."

Renji bleated something inarticulate in protest.

"See?"

"Heh. Yeah. See you 'round, Rukia."

_Don't bet on it, ass nugget,_ Renji thought contemptuously.

There was the sound of something large and heavy being dragged away through the grass, and then the feel of something small crouching down in it beside him.

Renji cracked open an eye to meet Rukia's concerned face.

". . .what da _hell_ ki'da medical attedtiod was _dat?_"

"The kind Aizen-san doesn't have to know about," she said reasonably, then wrapped an arm around his middle to help him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you home and cleaned up before Nii-sama sees you. I take it your staying at my place tonight?"

Nii-sama. Fuck. _Fuck,_ he'd left Byakuya just waiting there! But there was no way he could show his face now, not like this, not even to apologize. . .fuck, fuck, _fuck!_

"Aa," he sighed miserably, pissed at Ichimaru, pissed at Kira, and now more than anything pissed at himself. "If it's dot too buch trouble."

Rukia, oblivious, grinned at him. "Only always."

"Che. Lub you too, short-stack."

"And don't you forget it, either, wheezebag."

"Leprechaud."

"Dipshit."

"Dwarf."

"Knuckle-dragger."

"Bidget."

"Freeloader."

"Hah! Like you cad talk."

"That's different. I'm collecting bastardry tax."

"Tch. Whateber lets you sleep at dight."

Behind them, a sleek, dark head turned to regard them as they passed. It watched them go for a long moment before bowing and starting off in a different direction.

* * *

Rangiku leaned against the side of the Pure Souls van as she waited for Sousuke, Isane and the others to return from their last-minute sojourn to the toilets, glad that at least the scent of gunpowder in the air was thick enough to mask the already faint smell of the Pianissimo she held to her lips.

She closed her eyes and exhaled a plume of silvery smoke, and the image of Gin's departing back replayed again in her mind.

"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, but couldn't decide whether she was talking about him, or herself. She shouldn't have pushed him like that, she knew she shouldn't have, but he had been so _good_ lately and she'd only wanted to encourage what seemed to be the most probable cause of that improvement. He hadn't left like that in months -- left her hanging, left school in the middle of the day, hell, left in the middle of _class. . ._she'd thought that maybe he'd finally grown beyond whatever weird, random wanderlust or sense of imminent loss that so frequently drove him to reckless abandonment, his coping mechanism. She hadn't any right to expect him to -- no more, at least, than he had to expect her to discard her own, and he would never push her to do so, never -- but, damn it, it frightened her sometimes.

Gin hadn't the eyes for stop signs. They were just as red as the rest of his world, and he wasn't exactly lacking a predisposition for walking out in the middle of traffic just to hear someone's tires squeal. Rangiku couldn't help but worry that, someday, whoever was behind the wheel would decide not to stop for _him._

Izuru, jittery and cautious, seemed the type to hang back (seemed, in truth, like someone who needed to hold onto something just as badly as Gin needed to be held in check), and she'd had such high hopes that Gin's preoccupation with the boy might be enough of a distraction to keep him from stepping out into the street. . .

"Here."

_Speak of the Devil,_ she thought, and turned to come face to grinning face with Gin--

--nosuke the Cat.

"If you dug that out of the trash. . ." she said warningly.

"'course not," said Gin. "I stole a new one from the vendor, fair an' square."

Rangiku studied him for a long moment, then noticed Izuru standing shyly behind him. Her gaze traveled downward and fixated on their linked hands before returning again to Gin's face.

Well. The son of a bitch was nothing if not unpredictable.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, throwing down the butt of her cigarette and leaving it to smolder on the grass. "You lying bastard, I knew it!"

Gin's smile buoyed up, but then sank when she pushed past him to envelope a very startled Izuru in a lung- and breast-crushing hug.

"You are _so adorable!_"

"M-M-Matsumoto-san!" Izuru stuttered, eyes flashing panic at Gin, who only shrugged.

Rangiku released him just as suddenly, then spun around to scowl at her best friend.

"But not you," she continued. "You I'm still pissed at for taking off on me like that. And you still owe me a drink."

"Gomen na, Ran-chan. Just take the damn cat an' I'll owe ya two."

Rangiku took the damn cat, but maintained her frown -- an increasingly difficult task, as her eyes kept straying to the two boys' intertwined fingers. Gin, noticing this, reached up to brush the hair out of Izuru's face and kiss the blond impishly on the nose.

"Kyaa!" Rangiku stamped her foot in defeat. "Stop being so damn cute, it's not fair!"

Gin grinned victoriously. "Do I get a hug n-- oomf!"

"Yes. But if you pull that runaway crap one more time," she muttered in his ear (the only part of his head, excluding his hair, that was visible from between the squishily punishing walls of her lovely but potentially lethal twins), "I'll break both your legs."

There was an indistinct assent that contained all the syllables of "Understood," if no discernible consonants and vowels.

* * *

Gin refused to let go of Izuru's hand throughout the whole of the hour-long drive home. Even when the clasp grew uncomfortably hot and sweaty, he only squeezed harder. He didn't even have to concentrate to feel Izuru's steady but rapid pulse through his skin, and he knew the younger boy was feeling as hyper-aware of their nearness as he was, packed sardine-tight on the van's back bench seat. It was exhilarating, this. . .this _confidence_ Izuru engendered within him, this unanticipated buffer zone. Gin felt close to invincible -- not as though he could do no wrong, but that again, at last, he was in complete control of his own wrongdoings. He hadn't felt this good in months. He felt on top of the world.

Sweet, wonderful boy, smart boy. Gin overlapped one of Izuru's ankles with his own and craned his neck back to whisper a "Chu!" in Izuru's ear before grazing the sensitive spot just beneath the lobe with his lips. The blond stiffened, and there was that beautiful blush again, visible even in the yellowish halo of the headlights of oncoming traffic.

Sousuke never blushed, not even when Gin's head bobbed between well-muscled thighs and strong fingers knotted guidingly in sterling strands. Not even when the deepest of shudders racked his Adonic frame and a low, satisfied groan accompanied the hot, salty splash of his completion in Gin's mouth did more than a finely glistening sheen of perspiration frost his features.

Gin wondered where else Izuru could color, and how much blood he could draw to the surface before the boy's skin broke. He had so many questions for this new body and erroneously mapped mind, so much he couldn't wait to explore. His depth perception had been off before -- all of the lines he thought he'd crossed had, in actuality, been set much further back than he'd originally gauged -- including the one regarding his true distance from Sousuke. Now, however, he smiled at the wandering pair of bespectacled, omniscient eyes in the rearview mirror, illumined with curiosity.

_Good,_ thought Gin, cheerfully vindictive. _Let 'im see. Let 'im see._

Let him see, and let him sin. He had lusted and glutted and was so damnably proud; now let him know wrath, let him know envy. He'd grown greedy with Hinamori and slothful toward Gin, and after he'd promised, he'd _promised_ to take _care. . ._

_You're a big boy now, Gin, much too old for nightmares to be driving you to my bed._

Indeed. And he would see. He would see -- his darling boy _could_ take care of himself, and of others as well. Gin had made that decision once before, but this time, he told himself, this time it would be different.

Even Lucifer had come to crown himself king of his own hellish consignment.

_Among the blind, the squinter rules._

And so Gin did not flinch when, upon arriving back at Pure Souls, Sousuke cradled a sleepy Hinamori to his chest and ascended the stairs to tuck her into bed. Rather, he bade his Ran-chan goodnight with a peck on the cheek, and took it upon himself to shepherd the littler ones up to their shared room with glasses of water and orders to brush their teeth extra good in the morning to make up for tonight's lapse in oral hygiene. He even blithely ignored Rikichi's complaint that their mean age was thirteen, not three, and that they didn't need to be treated like babies. Abarai-kun really was a bad influence on the kid, but that was a matter for another day.

Izuru, after depositing the Tails plush in his room, lingered in the dormitory hall, and smiled at Gin nervously when the silver-haired boy shut the younger trio's door behind him.

Gin waited.

The blond bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as if psyching himself up for a jump, then stepped quickly forward to capture Gin's mouth with his own with an awkward clicking of teeth against teeth. Gin inhaled sharply, relishing the clumsy sincerity of the kiss -- but when he sought to deepen it, Izuru broke away as if startled.

"Your tongue," the boy explained at Gin's questioning expression.

"Uhh. . .yeah? Yours, too. That's kinda how this works, see. . ."

"No, not that -- stick it out."

Eh?

--Oh. Oh yeah, he'd forgotten about those_._

Gin did as he was told.

"Huh," said Izuru, inspecting the two barbells, the ball ends of which rested atop the Gin's tongue like twin BB shots. "How come I--"

"--never noticed 'em b'fore?" Gin finished for him, slipping his tongue back behind his teeth. "Sousuke don' like 'em. Thinks they look tacky. He don' like me wearin' 'em ta school, so normally I just keep 'em in at night ta make sure the holes don't close."

Izuru nodded, then shyly, quietly, ". . .I like them," he admitted.

"Yeah?" asked Gin.

"Yeah," confirmed Izuru. "I like the way they f-feel. . ."

The blond's hand raised to caress his senpai's face in cinema-taught tenderness as Gin allowed him to feel the piercings again, snaking long arms around a too-slender torso, following with long fingers the delicate ridges of a spine that Gin had come to find was so much stronger than it appeared. Foolish, he'd been just as foolish as his own face not to have seen it -- everything -- sooner, especially about himself. He'd never once stopped to examine the impulse to leave the barbells in tonight, or to forgo his habitual theft of Sousuke's cologne in a pathetic attempt to deceive at least one sense out of loneliness. . .

_But what else can ya really expect from a guy who's never been able ta see where he's goin'?_

He would not, he vowed, be so unvigilant in the future. He would not again permit himself to mistake omens for whimsy.

The hallway was quiet but for the soft, wet sounds of their kisses, Gin's deep, careful breaths and Izuru's occasional little noises of pleasure. Encouraged and curious, Gin slid a hand around to the boy's front. He pressed his palm against the flat of Izuru's stomach and dragged it down. . .

"Mmf--"

The blond pulled back, panting, blue eyes wide and dilated but apprehensive.

"Wait," he said, shallow breaths fanning hotly across Gin's cheek. "I. . .I don't. . ."

"Shhh," Gin hushed him, but returned his hand to the small of Izuru's back. His thumbs traced half-circles on the overheated skin there, while his mouth moved to Izuru's throat. "I know," Gin reassured him between gentle nips of bittersweet flesh, delighting in the involuntary tremor that ran through the boy's body like an electrical charge. "It's okay. I didn't honestly expect ya ta be ready for all that yet. You only just had your first kiss tonight, after all."

Izuru's voice turned downcast. "Was it that obvious?"

"Hey." Gin lifted his head and leaned forward to rest his brow against the shorter boy's. "Does it look like I'm complainin'? But if ya think ya need ta practice. . ."

His tongue darted out to brush against Izuru's lips. The boy's mouth parted automatically, then frowned when Gin drew teasingly away. Gin chuckled at his kouhai's pouting petulance, but his amusement was cut short when Izuru's hand slipped around to the back of his neck, pulling him down as Izuru rose up on his toes to catch that wayward tongue in a disciplinal kiss that would not tolerate being denied. Maybe, thought Gin inside a shudder, maybe he wouldn't need to wait so very long after all. . .

"Whoa."

. . .provided, of course, that he could stop being interrupted.

The fabric of Izuru's shirt found itself screwed up in Gin's frustrated fingers as the fox-faced boy allowed his head to drop onto Izuru's shoulder in restrained annoyance.

"Tsu. . .Tsubokura-kun," Izuru stammered, his voice sounding uncharacteristically loud and resonant in Gin's ears at such close proximity, "we were just. . ."

"G. . .gomen. So sorry. I -- I'll wait, I can hold it. . ."

The door clicked shut. A beat passed, and then, from the other side--

"KISSING?! Oh, _nasty!_"

"Rikichi, keep your voice down! They're standing right outside the door!"

In softer tones, "_Nasty. . ._"

"Ignore 'em," Gin growled, feeling Izuru tense against him. Rikichi-kun _definitely_ needed a lesson in anti-Abarai-ism. . .

"Aa. . .still, I. . .I think I should go to bed."

Gin perked up, and lifted his head. "Want me ta go with ya?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Izuru laughed, but didn't reply.

". . .all right, then," he continued, playfully resigned. "I guess I'll see ya in the mornin'."

He cupped the younger boy's face in his hands, kissed his forehead, his lips -- his lips again, and then once more, for good measure -- before releasing him and heading for his own and Iba's room.

"Gin!"

Gin turned around. Izuru licked his lips uncertainly.

"Just. . .goodnight."

". . .sweet dreams, Izuru-chan," Gin smiled, then ducked inside his room before he could be reprimanded for the juvenile endearment.

* * *

He needn't have bothered. Izuru was too dazed to so much as register the name, let alone take offense to it.

He entered his own room and flopped back onto his bed with a sigh, feeling dizzy from the turning of tables and Gin's oxygen-robbing kisses. What a weird night. What a crazy, unexpected, fantastic, nerve-wracking night. . .

He touched his mouth, prodded lips still swollen from being repeatedly mashed up against another pair. He folded his tongue back and sucked on it, reliving the feel of budded muscle pushing against budded muscle, savoring the lingering tang of surgical steel and the organic, not-quite-tasteless flavor of a mouth that was not his own. After years of disinterest bordering on asexuality, Izuru finally understood what all the fuss was about. Kissing Gin was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined he _could_ experience, not even when he was alone, when he touched himself with no further fantasy than that of an abstract goal of physical release. He had never before been so specifically, directly stimulated by any one person or thought.

Nor had he realized that he was capable of doing likewise to someone else, but of that there could be no question. He felt his face grow hot all over again at the memory of their bodies crushed together, of being able to feel exactly how much he affected the older boy. That, in combination with the knowledge that Gin had, without a doubt, felt Izuru's reciprocated excitement, had been almost distressing at the time it occurred. It was all just so new -- amazing, but overwhelming. There was so much Izuru had to process, not least of which was the confirmation of his own sexuality.

He still wasn't entirely certain that he was gay. He knew that he definitely wasn't _straight,_ but. . .it felt too soon for either category to be a comfortable fit. In fact, if he was pressed to label himself as anything, "Ginsexual" would have been the most appropriate term.

Izuru laughed to himself, imagining Renji's face if he ever heard. . .

Renji.

A pang of guilt shot through him as his eyes fell upon his roommate's empty bed.

_He threw the first punch,_ Izuru told himself. _It was none of his business. And what the hell happened to 'you don't cockblock your friends,' anyway?_

All the same, it would have been a lot easier to be angry if he didn't feel that the redhead's heart was in the right place, even if his methods of expressing concern left something to be desired. Still, it had been completely unnecessary and uncalled for, for Renji to hit Gin -- Gin had said nothing, after all, that Renji had not said himself. And as for Gin's vehement reaction. . .

Izuru couldn't stop his mind remembering the silver-haired boy's comparatively lackluster response to the punch he himself had thrown at him their first meeting.

Well, and so what? That had been a different situation entirely. Gin had deserved it, for one thing, and for another, Izuru couldn't estimate with any certainty how _he_ would react to being insulted for months -- possibly even years -- and then assaulted on top of everything else, for no good reason. If Gin had indeed enjoyed hurting Renji as much as he'd seemed to, Izuru couldn't really blame him, and besides, it. . .

. . .it had been really, disturbingly attractive.

Something was seriously the matter with him. Renji was his _friend_ -- at least, Izuru hoped he still was -- and the last thing he wanted was to be accomplice to _anyone's_ pain. He didn't even like action movies all that much, having always prefered sleek, psychological thrillers over sensationalistic violence in which every splattering of blood was given slow-motion screen time. But the way Gin had moved. . .it was like watching a bullet tear free from its chamber, with nothing to put a pause in its path until the arterial spray of its target splashed against the wall.

And against his better judgement, Izuru had found himself entranced by the image. It was. . .inspiring. Rallying. A mute call to arms, a quiet, on-the-inside incite to riot. Gin captained his blood on a course set to ram through the blockade of Izuru's disappointment -- both in himself, and that of others in him. Renji's. His parents'.

Without a doubt, Izuru wasn't straight. If not Gin, then surely _someone _would have come along eventually and breathed enough life into him to oxidize a hole in his foil-thin heart. Either that, or he would have been gradually reduced by loneliness, made dense and impenetrable as iron, like the Tin Woodsman in The Wizard of Oz, hollow-chested and weeping until he rusted shut completely. Whatever else his parents had expected of him, they couldn't possibly have wanted _that_. . .could they? Even though. . .

Even though they had already left him alone once.

Izuru's jaw tightened, and his eyes felt suddenly like hot coals in his head. He shut them, smothering the itch he had avoided scratching since the day he was pulled out of class by his former principal, apologized to and informed that he would never truly be going home again. The day he'd gone from golden boy to pollutant ore, from precious to toxic heavy metal.

Now there was a mosh pit in his stomach and a circle of slam-dancers twisting in his heart, greasing and cranking his mental gears until they spun without so much as a hint of their recent screeching. Caught up in a whirlwind in which he hadn't been for months, Izuru sat up, opened his eyes and went to his desk. He picked up a pen and extracted a clean leaf of paper from beneath the beginnings of his weekend civics assignment. Then he began to write.

_One thousand butterflies__  
Hatched in my chest tonight,__  
Brought on by your silk-spun  
Tongue, your hookah smoke hair._

_Once bitten, twice stoned:__  
First in your opiate cocoon,__  
Then by glasshoused fiends  
Who think to sneak R's in;_

_Who mistake what I call__  
Your gunpowder greenhouse__  
Effect, your mulberry tree house  
Effect, for flames _

_Best kept beneath Earth's crust,__  
Swept underground with shame;  
But I would rather flutter  
Into fire than_

_Remain a worm__  
On the caterpillar cushion__  
Of a mushroom seat,  
Asking "Who are you?" when wings_

_And moth madness  
May carry me to who I need._

* * *

Gin leapt onto his bed with a laugh and bounced three times before slamming his head back against his pillow. The ceiling fan's glow-in-the-dark stars were stagnant and seemed to be watching him with unmitigated curiosity as he kicked his legs in the air like a child, full of a restless energy he couldn't quite contain.

He rolled over on his side, then flopped onto his stomach, then sprang up and twisted to land again on his back. His hands punched at the mattress. He arched up until his body was crescent-shaped and balanced only on his toes and the top of his head, but he could hold the position for only a few seconds before the itchy tension in his body demanded again that he _move, _and he collapsed in a giddy, random twitching of muscles and flailing of limbs.

And he was smiling -- smiling so wide and so hard his face hurt, as if a puppeteer had tied wires to his cheeks and tugged them unrelentingly taut. His heart raced. His head was raucous. The blond's name jackhammered against his skull, _, _a celebration of synapses and electrical impulses, a punch-drunk neurochemical happy hour.

Gin tapped his tongue piercings against the roof of his mouth. He'd gotten them a year ago, a handful of months after the arrival of Hinamori and the drastic halting of Sousuke's already waning affections, having stupidly hoped that the ornamentation's rumored sensual effects would be enough to entice the man into allowing Gin back into his bed (or at the very least, beneath his desk).

They hadn't worked. In fact, they had had an effect opposite to the one Gin had intended. He'd never seen that look from Sousuke before, not even when Abarai had arrived, a kid of fourteen already tattooed from eyebrows to hairline. The older man had looked positively _disgusted_ with Gin's "self-mortification," as he'd termed it, his "deliberate deformation of what used to be such a beautiful mouth."

It had been a devastating blow, and only Rangiku had noticed how subdued he'd become in the following weeks, how quickly his smile would slip from his features when he thought no one was watching him, and how sleepy he grew. Sousuke's rejections had sedative effect on him. He would sometimes nap for days at a time afterward, utterly exhausted to the point of being physically unable to drag himself out of bed; but his, at least, was a merciful god. Gin's absences from school numbered in the "automatic expulsion" range, but he was protected by Sousuke's voucher of the legitimacy of his ailments, and the man's promise that no matter how many classes Gin missed, his grades would never fall below average.

They didn't, and in time, Gin was always forgiven. . .but not like he used to be. Not like he needed to be.

They hadn't worked, but Gin had kept the piercings in anyway, had viewed them as a kind of cilice and allowed them to heal while he'd slept, swollen and silent. Their sexual possibilities aside, he did like them, and if there was no point beyond that in having gotten them in the first place, he saw no real purpose in permanently removing them for any reason but cessation of the same.

There'd been no point to a lot of things then.

But he had one now. More than a point -- he had a fucking _spear._

And a side in which to stick it.

Gin hugged his pillow tight against his chest, and laughed, and knew he wouldn't sleep for days.

* * *

_I don't need your love to disconnect_

_To runaround kids in get-go cars__  
With Vaseline afterbirths and neon coughs__  
Galaxies full of nobodies__  
Giving us the farewell runarounds__  
I took a Virgin Mary axe to his sweet Baby Jane__  
Lost my innocence to a no good girl  
Scratch my face with __**anvil hands and  
**Coil my tongue around __**a bumblebee mouth**_

_And I give it all back to you. . ._ -- Smashing Pumpkins, "Fuck You (An Ode to No One)"

* * *

**A/N: **_See? Multiple parts at once. I also went back and revised a few small things -- run-on sentences, some semi-colon abuse, all mentions of the Academy's winter uniforms (bellatrix-voldielocks0o pointed out in a piece of fanart she did that private schools in Japan usually employ Western-style prep school uniforms instead of the gakuran worn by public school students, so I switched a few words around), & I had the order of Iba's names backwards. Nice. Why does no one tell me these things? Anyway, if you happen to reread anything & think "Hey, I could've sworn that sentence read differently before. . ." you're probably right. I'm a compulsive editor, but I never change anything that would affect the course of the plot & require anyone to reread previous chapters._

_& YES! I have fanart! How cool is that?! XDDD __**voldie-riddle dot deviantart dot com**__**/gallery/#Brown-Leafed-Vertigo-fanart** has some awesome sketches drawn by the aforementioned & fabulous bellatrix-voldielocks0o that depict some of the scenes found (& not found) in this story. They're all hilarious/adorable & I lovelovelove them to bits, so a huge thank you to her. Open up a new tab & go check them out. Right now._

_Even more than the usual thanks apply -- those for reading & reviewing, of course, & also extras for patience. Hopefully the next part will be up in substantially less than two-&-a-half months' time. I am currently very, very busy IRL (which is a lot of why it took me so long to update) & will be until at least the end of the year, but I'll do what I can. This thing's become, like, my fic-baby. I don't think I could abandon it even if I tried. Also, expect review replies this time around, as I finally figured out what that little speech bubble below peoples' names is for. Genius, I know. o.o;_

_Oh, & just to give y'all a heads-up -- just like Renji got chapter six, Zaraki's getting eleven._


	11. Sucking a New Life

**XI. Sucking a New Life**

* * *

"Well, don't you look Christmassy."

Zaraki Kenpachi turned toward the mild, amused voice, causing the bells that tipped his liberty spikes to jingle festively. His thin lips cut into a smirk.

"Yeah, well, 'tis the season, or some shit like that. Kid likes 'em, anyway."

Unohana Retsu smiled as she came to sit beside him on the grass.

"Did she enjoy the show?" she asked, indicating the heavily-swaddled sleeper in his arms.

"Slept through the whole damn thing, stubborn brat. Knocked out before the first kaboom." Light brown eyes glared fondly down at the slumbering infant. "Here," he offered, "wanna take 'er?"

Retsu nodded, and Yachiru stirred slightly as she was passed from one pair of hands to another before settling comfortably against the new, softer body. The nurse laughed.

"How many blankets did you wrap her in? She's nearly doubled in weight."

Kenpachi shrugged and rubbed at the back of his neck a little sheepishly. "Didn't want her catchin' no cold."

"Apparently not," Retsu agreed, and for a long while they sat in companionable silence, watching festival-goers loaded down with lawn chairs and parasols fight their way back to their cars, suddenly eager to get gone in the smoke-hazed wake of the fireworks' finale. Kenpachi doubted he would ever understand why people who would show up four hours early to claim whatever they thought was the best spot to play spectator would turn so quickly impatient to haul ass home, as if they didn't have time to kill. People were so fuckin' stupid.

But then, he'd been one of 'em, once. Oh, he'd been a total fuckin' moron. Knew he still could be, sometimes, about some things; but there was difference, a big one, between doing some dumbass shit and actually being a dumbass. It was a line the woman beside him had helped him to draw -- and a distinction she was still trying, gently but very firmly, to get him to make clearer.

Almost ten months ago, he hadn't even had dirt to draw it in -- just the great big pile of shit that was his life. He'd used almost as much as he sold back then, leaving him with a profit line like a plateau that was coming dangerously close to slipping into the negative, despite his belief that "debt" was the foulest of all four-letter words. Then Nanashi had shown up after almost a year spent fuck-knows-where, with a diaper bag and a carrier and a drooling parasite hooked over one shoulder.

"She's yours," she'd said, and "So what?" he'd asked.

Nanashi only shrugged and pushed a lock of pink hair off her forehead. "Just thought you oughtta know."

He said he didn't care to. She shrugged again and said, "Whatever."

He asked if that was it, or if she was here to trade. She said she was with someone now, but she had some stuff of her own. Maybe they could do a hit together, for old time's sake?

He should've known, right then and there, that he couldn't trust her. Not that he'd ever felt he could, except to be selfish, with her skag and with her fucking and her money and her time, but most _especially_ with her skag. She was a junkie, after all. She was just like him.

And because she was just like him, she'd known there was no way in hell he was gonna pass up a free hit, no matter how obvious the ulterior motive behind it. Bitch had even tied off the tourniquet around his arm.

He should've known, because it wasn't his shit, that it would fuck him up in new and untold ways. The colors had been interesting. The dinosaur, less so, and the bunnies had been downright fuckin' _disturbing. . ._

He should've known, and he definitely shouldn't have been surprised, when he came down five hours later in a nest of shredded toilet paper he didn't remember building, to the tune of a shrieking six-week-old (clear in one ear and slightly muffled by a pacifier stuck in the other) and an otherwise empty apartment. It was the closest he'd ever come to panicking in his then twenty-two years. He'd bolted from the building and made some shit-for-brains effort at finding the kid's mother, running back and forth in front of his apartment complex and down a few choice alleyways, trailing toilet paper like a molting bird, shouting Nanashi's name like a wino with Tourette's and scaring more than a couple of loitering pedestrians close to pissing themselves.

But she was long gone by then. Had probably taken off the minute he'd depressed the plunger on the syringe.

The kid was still screaming when he got back, and while he acknowledged a grudging admiration of her lung capacity, he knew he had to shut her up before one of the neighbors either got curious, or bypassed curiosity completely and called the cops, claiming attempted infanticide. A ransacking of the diaper bag produced a few Pampers, wipes, a half-empty bottle, a cannister of formula, baby powder and a birth certificate. He tried the bottle first, with no effect -- kid was cryin' too hard to take it. Dread filled him, slaughtering any leftover buzz that might have been lingering in his blood. He bent over and gave an experimental sniff--

--and nearly gagged.

Fuck, she stank.

But he managed. Somehow, he managed, a weird sort of adrenaline taking over as he'd lifted the kid awkwardly, instinct and maybe some subconscious memory of a bullshit TV melodrama he'd zoned out in front of once while stoned telling him to support her head as he transferred her from the carrier to the flimsy card table in his kitchen to change her. Goddamn, she was small -- all curled up, she wasn't much bigger than one of his hands -- but he managed.

He managed to learn that, no matter how high his Pure Suck test scores might have been, diapers resided at their own level of geometric hell, and that baby powder was more inclined to dispense itself in snowy explosions instead of neatly razored lines. But he managed, and thankfully, it seemed to do the trick.

The baby's cries abated into wet, hiccupy fussing. Uncomfortable at the thought of holding her, he put her back in her carrier. She accepted the bottle he held to her small mouth and suckled it greedily as he picked up the birth certificate with his free hand.

Kusajishi Yachiru, born February 12th, 2.5 kilos, 36 centimeters long. No father listed.

Kenpachi did the math. Decided yeah, it was possible. It was _possible_ -- but she was so fuckin' _little. . ._

Which didn't mean dick, some defiantly functional part of his brain pointed out, if Nanashi hadn't quit usin' to have her -- Nanashi who could never be called "tall" herself.

Bottle and bottom dry, the infant let the rubber nipple slip from her tiny red lips as she dropped off into sated sleep, blissful and apathetic with the repletion of her basic needs, not unlike an addict cast in miniature.

Yeah. It was possible.

He searched her face for signs of his, but although he found none, neither did he recognize any traits that didn't obviously belong to Nanashi. Kid'd probably grow up to be the spitting image of her mother. With any luck, that would be her only resemblance to the woman. Not that he'd be keeping her long enough to find out.

He stood and took his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and started to browse through his contacts list. Nanashi must have gotten hold of some seriously bad shit, even worse than whatever she'd given him, if her crack-addled brain had forgotten that he wasn't without connections; if she honestly believed a few hours would be enough of a head start to keep him from tracking her ass down, like a clocking paper trail wasn't just as effective as a legitimate one.

He selected a name and pushed Call.

Even if it was possible, it wasn't. What the fuck was he supposed to do with a baby? Take her out pushing? Keep candy sticks in one pocket and fuckin' lollipops in another? He could barely support his own habit, let alone a daughter.

He looked at her.

Shouldn't have, but did.

The other end of the line rang once, twice.

He didn't _want_ her. He didn't.

And neither did Nanashi. Even if he did find the strawberry bitch and force her to take the brat back, she wouldn't keep her. She'd just find another potential daddy to foist the kid on, or worse, give her up to The System.

Kenpachi's body went rigid.

The fourth ring was followed by a click, an answering "Moshi moshi, Maki-Maki."

Goddamn it.

God_damn_ it.

There were some slaughterhouses where even Zaraki Kenpachi refused to lead a lamb. Drugs were a choice before they became a dependency, and he had no qualms about respecting a buyer's initial decision, but to hand a kid over to the state was, in his mind, an act equivalent to and unforgivable as rape. To force anything like what he'd gone through on a person -- an infant, no less, and a girl -- who had no way of giving her informed consent. . .there was no way, no way in hell he could let that happen and live with himself. He'd OD within a month trying to escape the guilt, or else be on the run from kidnapping charges once his conscience got the better of him and he sought to make right what he'd royally fucked up.

"Oi, Zaraki-san, you there? Fuck, man, don't tell me you're dialin' high. . ."

"Nah," he heard himself say, feeling like he was standing one room beyond his own voice. "Forget it. False alarm."

He snapped the phone shut without waiting for a reply. He lit a cigarette, sank down onto the sofa, and stared at a Chappy & Friends onesie, at cupcake pink fluff crowning plump cheeks stuffed with roses.

". . .shit."

* * *

His life had always been one of chaos. He didn't mind it, wasn't afraid of it. It was what he knew. It was all he'd ever known. Pushing, running, brawling, challenging and establishing one kind of authority while shrewdly avoiding another. He didn't have the patience for politics, street or otherwise, but after four years in Rukongai, taking in merchandise from its seedier back door borders and distributing to its respectable store front inner communities, Kenpachi had made a name for himself as the Switzerland of the city's small-time drug cartel. He was indiscriminately neutral -- although hardly passive -- and kept his personal scales balanced by alternately fucking over and trading favors with whichever side of whatever dipshit rivalry happened to roll through town. He was respected for it, and for the fact that he could be relied upon when it came to the really important shit. He didn't narc, he couldn't be bribed, and he bought and sold only top quality goods. That he towered a good foot over most men didn't hurt, either. All this he understood. Like a rabbit in a brier patch, it was his unlikely comfort zone.

To be thrown headfirst into a world of feeding schedules and diaper changes and fucking _fluids_ coming out of every orifice without preamble or restraint -- _that_ was new (well, except maybe the fluids); _that_ was almost fucking terrifying, though admittedly not as unnerving as the sheer cost of baby junk. Diapers, formula, wet wipes, more diapers, a carseat (one ride with the carrier had convinced him of the need for that one -- fuckin' thing slid when set on the floor and teetered precariously when placed on a seat, and he'd nearly wrecked a half-dozen times lunging to save it from playing ping-pong against the sides of the van or toppling over completely). . .

His regulars took to the kid more readily than he did. Ikkaku and Yumichika, among his best and most loyal customers, as well as being two of the very, very few people he would name as friends, had even shown up at his door the day after they'd learned of the little girl, carrying two boxes: one of tools, and another with a disassembled crib, both brand-spankin'-new (Yumichika) and put to immediate use (Ikkaku). Against Kenpachi's protests that he didn't need no fuckin' charity, not from anyone for anything, Yumi had only sighed heavily and pointed out that _Yachiru-chan_ needed to be taught how to accept gifts for _her_ more gracefully than Zaraki-papa (to which Kenpachi had replied that _fruity bitches_ needed to be taught how to value _their lives_ before they went around calling anyone shit like that who wasn't their actual fucking papa -- but he'd let them set up the crib).

All of it, he felt he could say with some authority, sucked harder than whore on pay day -- but true fear did not come to loom ominously over his shoulder until late April, when Yachiru got sick.

It began with a small cough after he'd finished feeding her her evening bottle, and he figured a little formula must've gone down the wrong pipe. She hadn't eaten as much as she usually did that day, but he didn't think much about that beyond _Good, the less she eats, the cheaper she'll be._ It wasn't until the cough returned only minutes later, along with the meager contents of her stomach, that he began to grow concerned. The kid spat up sometimes just to spite him, he thought -- he'd had no idea babies could actually _overflow_ -- but it registered somewhere in the haze of his most recent hit that this was different from a casual upchucking of excess food. For one thing, she hadn't eaten enough to _have_ any excess to expel; for another, she'd seemed genuinely uncomfortable when she'd done it.

Hesitantly, he covered her brow with one large palm, only to draw it quickly back again in alarm. He swore. She was damn near boiling.

And she was beginning to cry, which only made her cough harder, which only made her _cry_ harder, and he was way too fuckin' smacked out for this shit. Holding her (which by that time had become all but second nature to him) made no difference, except in testing the pain threshold of his eardrums, and the cool bath he drew in hope of lessening her fever only made her shiver on top of everything else.

Taking her to a doctor was out of the question. He didn't have the money, and there was fuck all chance that any licensed professional would take one look at him and chalk his appearance up to being a superficial aesthetic choice. Ditto a pharmacist, and like hell would he subject her to one of the back alley quacks he employed whenever something needed stitched that he couldn't reach on his own.

He didn't know what to do. It was a new feeling for him, helplessness, and he wasn't a fan.

He needed another hit -- no, he needed to _think._ He was sure he could think if she would just shut the fuck up for a second, just for one fucking _second. . ._

A hit would shut her up, argued the reptilian region of his brain.

Kenpachi grabbed the kid, grabbed his keys.

The van's engine idled a full two minutes before the unused paths of desperation in his mind, half-concealed by alternating overgrowths of adrenaline and apathy, yielded any sort of destination. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number he had never used, one he hadn't even known he remembered until his fingers pressed the sequence on the keypad of their own accord.

A girl picked up after three rings, bubbly and sounding young enough for it to be way past her bedtime. "Moshi moshi, Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children, you make 'em, we break 'em, how may I help you?"

"Lemme talk to Ichimaru."

"Just a second." There was the muffled scrape of phone's mouthpiece being pressed against the cloth of her shirt, with the rather pointless effect of amplifying her voice as she called for her housemate, "GIIIN-SAAAN! PHOOONE!"

If he had taken away only one piece of knowledge from his brief time at that godforsaken place, it was that Ichimaru Gin, the nosy bastard, knew everything. _Everything._

A minute or two passed, then the line crackled as the phone transferred hands.

"Yo."

"Ichimaru, it's Zaraki."

Gin sucked in a dramatic gasp. "Zaraki-san? To what do I owe the pleasure? An' what's wrong wit' baby girl in'a background? She don't sound too happy."

"No shit. Listen, I need an address. . ."

Of course Gin had it. Rattled it off the top of his head like he'd just been there that afternoon for tea. And of course it took Kenpachi a good twenty minutes longer to find the place than it should have, fuckin' wrong turns, but find it he did, halfway hidden by ginkgo trees and nestled a little ways back from one of the narrow roads in the historic district. A small blue car he'd seen more than once in the Academy's faculty parking lot sat atop the two paved lines that constituted the driveway. Good; Ichimaru hadn't been dicking him around about the address, then. Probably. If that blue-haired freak Kurotsuchi answered the door, though, or worse, Yamamoto-ojii-san, a smiling silver head was gonna roll. . .

But it didn't look like a place either of them would call home. No light shone from any of its windows, but even in the dark, the house looked, for lack of a better descriptive, like _her_ -- traditional and elegantly modest; everything a good Japanese girl was supposed to grow up to be. Everything that had made him feel so markedly uncomfortable whenever he'd been sent to her infirmary to be patched up after one of the many schoolyard scraps he'd gotten involved in during his brief tenure as a Lost Soul, which had been more often than should've been necessary. Rich kids wore a lotta fuckin' jewelry.

For now, though, Yachiru's discomfort outweighed his own. He unbuckled the baby from her carseat and vaulted up the steps of the front porch. Then he knocked. Pounded. Shouted. Rang the bell enough times that he would've swung first and asked who was there later, had he been the one on the other side of the door. The thought that any prolonged disturbance would rouse not only her but the neighbors, who might then decide to rouse the cops, silenced him when he saw a light come on in one of the upstairs windows. Yachiru had no such sense, but he hoped her carrying on would be overlooked by all save the one person whose attention he wanted to attract.

The door opened a few moments later, revealing a very confused-looking, yukata-clad Unohana-sensei. Surprisingly alert blue eyes darted from his face to the bundle of pink-haired misery he clutched in one arm.

"Zaraki-kun? What--"

"She's sick," he explained. "I dunno what's wrong with 'er -- she's burnin' up, won't stop coughin'. She threw up. I can't afford a doctor. Sensei. . ." He left the "please" hanging unspoken in the air.

Unohana recovered in admirable time, slipping into professionalism like a second kimono. "Come in," she said, holding the door open for him.

He did.

"How old is she?" Unohana asked, turning on the lamps in her living room as he sloppily kicked off his boots in the genkan.

"'bout two an' a half months."

"And when did you first notice she was unwell?"

"This evening. She wasn't interested in her dinner, then she started with this cough an' the fever."

The nurse nodded, then disappeared for a moment down into another room. She returned with a stethoscope and a thermometer, and placed the crooked end of the latter into Yachiru's tiny ear. It beeped after a few seconds, and Unohana frowned at the reading it gave.

"May I see her?"

She seemed to notice the reluctance with which he handed the baby over (he'd just gotten so used to holding her, that was all), and Kenpachi took a deliberate step back. He ran a hand through lank dark hair as he watched the woman examine her tiny, squirming patient on the sofa, prodding and soothing the child in turn until Yachiru quieted enough that the stethoscope could be made use of. He watched her face, focused on the shallow furrow between her brows at the baby's barking cough, and the slight, gentle purse of her lips as she listened to wheezing breaths struggle into small lungs. Anxiety gnawed at him. His fingers itched for a cigarette, if just for something to do with his hands.

Finally, Unohana slipped the stethoscope from her ears to down around her neck and lifted Yachiru with a distinctly female brand of tenderness.

"It's croup, I believe, although I can't say for certain," she told him, rising.

Kenpachi nodded as if familiar with the term, even more eager than usual to skip to the point. "Can you make her better?"

Her answer surprised him. "No, I'm sorry, I can't. Croup isn't a single illness, but a collection of conditions with similar symptoms. More than likely, it's viral, but it could also be a bacterial infection, or even allergies. I don't have anything here that could narrow down the diagnosis. She needs a doct--"

"I already told you, woman, I can't afford no fuckin' doctor! Why d'you think I came _here?_"

Unohana blinked at him, unfazed. "I don't know, Zaraki-kun, why you came to _me_ specifically, but I assume it was because you trust me to help your daughter, which I fully intend to do."

His daughter. Kenpachi didn't think he'd ever actually referred to the kid like that before, not even in his head. A little girl that might belong to him, yeah, but never _his little girl_ in that order, never _his daughter._ The term simultaneously cemented things and left him feeling as though he were standing on shaky ground.

"You said you couldn't help her," he argued, his voice coming out strangely thin and croaky.

"No, I said I couldn't make her better. I said she needs a doctor. _And before you interrupted,_" she emphasized as he made to repeat the offense, "I was going to say that, if you'll allow me to make a phone call, I know one who may be willing to help you."

He shifted his weight indecisively. Yachiru looked suddenly like a small hostage cradled against Unohana's breast.

"Give 'er back," he ordered.

The nurse hesitated. "Zaraki-kun--"

"NOW!"

She startled at his sudden shout, and did as he said, but with deliberate care, cautioning him, "The longer you wait, the more difficult it's going to become for her to breathe."

Kenpachi felt better with the kid in his arms, more in control of himself and the situation. He glared at the woman waiting silently for his answer. She wasn't wrong -- he _did_ trust her. All those times she'd patched him up, she'd never once scolded him for his behavior. Hadn't given off the impression that she approved of it, either, but he'd never left the Seireitei Academy infirmary with the feeling that he'd been judged and found wanting. It was a rare occurrence, and one that had always stuck out in his memories.

So yeah, he trusted her. But did he trust her enough that her voucher was worth the risk?

Did he really have a choice?

He glanced down at Yachiru, who had scrunched herself into a little ball of unhappiness, her breathing too shallow and much too loud for something so goddamn small. He swallowed dryly, feeling trapped.

". . .make the call."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later found him riding shotgun in Unohana's small blue car. The place, she'd said, was in Karakura Town. Given his track record with directions, he hadn't put up a fight when she'd insisted on driving him there.

Yachiru squirmed against his chest, seized every few minutes by a fit of coughing that made even Kenpachi's throat feel raw.

"Damn it, woman, can't you go any faster?" he growled in impatience.

Unohana looked at him sidelong. "Without her being in a carseat, I'm afraid not."

"Tch. Should'a taken my fuckin' van, then."

"Mm. Then we could have been pulled over for speeding _and_ arrested for possession," she sweetly retorted. "Foolish me, imagine the time we could have saved."

"Hey!" he started warningly, but any further reply failed him. Bitch had a point. "I don't remember you bein' this mouthy."

"Yes, well, I don't remember you being this strung out, so I suppose we're even."

"What, are you gonna lecture me on the evils of substance abuse now? Stay the fuck out of it, lady."

"This from the man who showed up at my door in the middle of the night seeking medical assistance. Charming."

"Ain't here ta fuckin' charm you."

She said nothing to that, and in the ensuing moments' silence Kenpachi felt, inexplicably, like an asshole for having said it. Even if it was goddamn true, and had nothing to do with anything besides.

But she _was_ helping him. She didn't have to do shit all for him and yet here she was, playing paramedic at one in the morning to someone she probably still thought of as just some overgrown street trash punk kid she hadn't seen in four years.

He studied her on the periphery of his vision. She hadn't changed much, either. Hair was longer. Still no husband, obviously. No engagement ring, either.

He smoothed a large hand absently over Yachiru's feverish head. The baby's breathing was still audibly strained, but she seemed to have exhausted herself of tears.

"You still with that Biology guy?" he asked, needing to fill the quiet with something else. "Uke-somethin'?"

Unohana glanced at him, looking surprised that he would bother to ask. Or remember, for that matter. "Ukitake. And no, not for quite some time now."

"What happened?"

She gave a little shrug. "He proposed; I declined. He. . .he wasn't what I was looking for."

Kenpachi grunted.

"What about you?" she asked. "Her mother, is she your. . .girlfriend?" She almost stumbled over the word, as though it were some unfamiliar slang term she was unsure of how to properly say.

Kenpachi's eyes narrowed as he stared out the window. "She ain't nothin'. Least of all a mother."

Unohana nodded in understanding. "What's her name? The child's, I mean."

"Yachiru," he said, unconsciously tightening his hold on the infant. "Her name's Yachiru."

* * *

**Kurosaki Clinic -- Pediatrics -- Internal Medicine**

Kenpachi read the sign. It was attached to a small building, the ass-end of which grew into a two-storey house with one light shining through a ground-floor window. Unohana said nothing as she got out of the car, and just as wordlessly, he followed her.

The clinic's glass doors slid open as they approached, revealing a tall, burly man wearing a lab coat over a pair of Hawaiian-patterned pyjamas. He was smiling in a way that even Ichimaru would have called obnoxious, and Kenpachi could tell from one look that he could and probably would very easily grow to hate this man.

"Retsu-chan!" the doctor greeted Unohana, bounding forward to wrap the small woman in a brief but painfully tight bear hug.

"Kurosaki-kun," she smiled tolerantly. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," he agreed, then took a step back -- and then another -- to look at Kenpachi. He frowned. "And too tall. Kurosaki Isshin," he introduced himself.

". . .Zaraki Kenpachi." Kenpachi warily shook the doctor's outstretched hand. Isshin looked him in the eye when he did it, and was either hiding his wince at Kenpachi's grip, or he was a strong-man concealing himself as a clown. Either way, it only served to quicken Kenpachi's sense of dislike, the finely-tuned bullshit alarms in his head going off like air raid sirens. He glanced suspiciously at Unohana, but her eyes were as neutral as ever.

Isshin's gaze strayed to Yachiru. "This is my patient, then? Croup, you said?"

"I believe so, Kurosaki-kun."

"Well then, first things first," he said, leading them inside the clinic. "But we really must make time to catch up. My Ichigo's a freshman this year, did you know? Strapping young man. See this bruise?"

"I rather wish I hadn't, Kurosaki-kun."

"That's Ichigo's handywork," Isshin said proudly, pulling up and retying his pants. "Well, the cleat was Karin's, but Ichigo managed to catch dear old Dad while my guard was down all on his own. Ahh, yes, he is truly my son. . ."

Kenpachi palmed the back of Yachiru's head protectively and wondered just who the hell Unohana had brought them to.

* * *

It _was_ croup, just as the nurse had suspected, and viral.

"Don't worry," Isshin reassured in a way that was somehow anything but. "We'll have her right as rain in no time."

But he worked quickly and with the resolute confidence, Kenpachi grudgingly acknowledged, of a guy who knew what he was doing, and that he was doing it right.

Now medicated, lightly sedated and equipped with a tiny oxygen mask, Yachiru slept, peacefully and comfortably, and relief had just begun to dull the edges of Kenpachi's feening nerves when Isshin spun a chair around and straddled it backwards to face him. The doctor smiled and steepled his fingers in front of his lips.

"Now, Zaraki-san," he buoyantly began, "down to business."

Kenpachi looked uneasily at Unohana, who stood nearby, staring at the floor with her hands solemnly clasped. Oh, what the hell was this?

And then Isshin asked the hundred-million-yen question, the one Kenpachi had been aiming above all others to avoid:

"What are you on?"

He shouldn't have trusted her. Why the _fuck_ had he trusted her? Like hell was he gonna lose Yachiru to this slap-happy asshole's moral high ground!

His jaw clenched as his brain worked -- he'd punch out the doc, maybe punch out the lying bitch who couldn't even meet his eyes (goddamn, he'd never hit a woman before -- but then he'd never wanted to quite _this_ badly), grab her keys, Yachiru, the meds, and then haul ass until he was at least four prefectures away--

"Whatever you're thinking," said Isshin, "it's probably a very bad idea."

"Only kind I'm good for," Kenpachi growled, nails already biting into his palms.

"No, no," Isshin allowed, "you went to Retsu-chan for help, which shows a remarkable amount of good sense -- and which sucks for you, because now I know you're capable of good sense. I have a proposition for you -- well, more of an ultimatum, really -- and that is, whatever you're on, if you want Yachiru-chan to have a regular pediatrician? You just quit."

Kenpachi stared. The statement didn't have the ring of fighting words, but his fists still refused to uncurl.

"Come again?" he demanded.

"It's exactly as it sounds. You get off the junk, and stay off of it? Yachiru will receive the very best medical care -- namely, mine -- until she comes of age, at no monetary expense to you. My payment will be your sobriety."

Kenpachi hesitated. He looked over at the sterile bassinet.

Isshin continued, "You should know, before you decide, that I _will_ be making sure this check clears on a regular and spontaneous basis. I'll get you through detox, but after that, it's up to you to show me she's worth it."

"And if she ain't?"

"Then your bad idea might not be so bad after all. I can't in good conscience release her into the care of a junkie -- but I would _like_ to release her into the care of her father. It's up to you."

His daughter -- _maybe._ His little girl, so full of possibility, right now looking as alien as the concept she suddenly symbolized, tubes coming out of her tiny arms like tentacles, masked like a baby Predator.

A few moments passed in ambivalent silence.

"Zaraki-san?" the doctor prompted. "Your decision, please."

* * *

"Ryuu-chan! . . .three a.m.; don't you have an alarm clock? . . .Ryuu-chan? Moshi moshi? Huh, must've gotten disconnected. . ."

Isshin hung up the phone, then dialed again. A few seconds passed, and then--

"How did you know it was me? Are you psychic, Ryuu-chan? --Psych_ic,_ Ryuu-chan, and no, alas, only my children-- Well there's no need to get snippy! You're on call, and I'm calling in a favor. I know it's not your policy to check on your _own_ family, but I was wondering if you could check on _mine_ once or twice this coming week? Why? I'm not at liberty to discuss it. Patient-doctor confidentiality, you know that, Ryuu-chan.

"Oh, and I also need you to run the usual battery of tests -- you know, HIV, syphilis and the like -- on a couple of blood samples that will be waiting for you in the fridge. Do your best not to drink them. --I'm _joking,_ Ryuu-chan. Eesh, so serious. . .so bring the boy along. He's in Ichigo's class, isn't it? Surely they must be friends. . ."

* * *

With Yachiru snoozing silently in his arms, Kenpachi rode again with Unohana back to his place, while Isshin followed behind in a station wagon that looked to be composed of equal parts duct tape and rust. Once there, the doctor cleaned house, and Kenpachi's dwindling bank account along with it. Everything went -- either down the toilet or boxed and bagged for its anonymous return to the nearest local law enforcement agency. Both Yachiru's carrier and Yachiru were installed in Unohana's small blue car, along with whatever the kid might need for a week. It was dawn by the time the nurse, her temporary ward, and Kenpachi's livelihood all departed his apartment, leaving him with the least consoling consolation prize in the history of humankind.

What followed was a week of pure and merciless hell as his his cells were sucker-punched into functioning solely under their own power for the first time in nearly a decade. He sweated, puked, sneezed, shat and shivered out the metric fuck-ton of various chemical substances that had come to stain the fibers of his muscles and the lining of his veins. He felt his bones try to dig their way out of his skin with the rusted blades of his nerve endings, and his internal organs split into factions and formed battering rams in well-coordinated efforts to become _ex_ternal.

Meanwhile, Isshin did his best impersonation of a prison guard: sat on his ass, made popcorn (to this day, Kenpachi couldn't walk past the concession stand in a movie theater without wanting to heave) and watched Crayon Shin-chan, taking time out on commercial breaks to make wisecracks such as "Isn't this _fun,_ Zaraki-san? It's just like a slumber party!" or "I ordered in some Mexican, Zaraki-san. Extra taco meat and guacamole. Here, smell!" or the ever-helpful, "Oh dear, Zaraki-san, is that Godzilla on your ceiling?! Aah! He's come to kill us all!!"

It took four days for the chills to subside, and another two before Kenpachi made it past the bathroom and completely down the short hallway that led to his living room and eat-in kitchen, where Isshin stood over the stove, humming something gratingly off-key and attacking a mess of grease and yellow fluff in a frying pan with a spatula.

After nearly six days without food, Kenpachi's stomach announced his presence for him.

"Ohayou, Zaraki-san!" Isshin greeted him with a maliciously high volume of cheer. "Hungry? I haven't had much experience in the matter, but I believe breakfast is included in standard morning-after -- or mornings-after -- protocol, yes?"

"Usually they leave. As quietly as possible. And don't come back."

"Oh Zaraki-san, you tease. You ought to know by now I'm not that type of girl." He halved the eggs between two plates next to bowls of rice, set them on the table, then added, "And neither is Retsu-chan."

Kenpachi, already midway through his first bite, forced down a swallow of eggs before he could choke on them. "What?"

"She's a good woman, Retsu-chan. Like Mary Poppins -- practically perfect in every way. An angel who flies by parasol."

"Uh. Whatever you say."

"And somehow," Isshin continued, his tone deceptively light, "I doubt you found her by tearing up an advertisement and throwing it in a fireplace."

Kenpachi glared at him sidelong. "Whatever you're gettin' at, Kurosaki, you might wanna spit it the fuck out already."

"I was just wondering" -- Isshin paused to take a sip of his coffee -- "what a chronic underachiever -- no pun intended -- such as yourself was doing with the home address of his former school nurse with whom he had had no contact in four years."

"You wonder about shit that isn't your business very often?"

"Oh, all the time. But in this case, I'm making it my business. Like I said, Retsu-chan is a good woman. I think even Fujiyama's heart might be smaller. She loves her work. She loves her students. She would give anything for her patients, and has -- blood, bone marrow, a kidney. She'd give up one of her eyes if she thought it would mean a blind man might be able to see."

"Regular fuckin' saint, ain't she?"

Isshin smirked. "Hardly. But she is one of the very few genuinely compassionate people in this world, and if I catch wind -- even a faint whiff -- of your taking advantage of that, there will be no high euphoric enough to put so much as a dent in the pain I will cause you."

Kenpachi wisely decided to keep to himself that he would have liked to see Isshin attempt that.

"The hell d'you think I'm gonna do to her, try to pout my way out of a piss test? If you catch wind, it'll be the kind that comes outta your ass, and no fault of mine."

Isshin only smiled his dumbass smile as he tucked into his rice.

"Good to know, Zaraki-san. That's good to know."

* * *

He left (thank fuck) two days later, and when Unohana arrived to drop off one undersized (but now perfectly healthy) child and take an overgrown one out for a catching-up lunch, it was decided that, owing to geographical convenience, she would be the one to keep tabs on Kenpachi's recovery.

It had sounded good at the time -- but then, any plan that did _not_ include Kurosaki Isshin's sporadic asshattery in Kenpachi's life would've been accompanied by a golden halo of light and a chorus of hallelujahs from on high.

She dropped by every couple of days or so, unannounced and always at different times of the afternoon or evening, although it never felt like she was trying to catch him in the act of falling off the wagon. If it had, it might've been easier for Kenpachi to deal with her presence. He could handle suspicion -- sarcastic compliance to the point of obnoxiousness usually did the trick -- but she was so fucking _sincere,_ it ate up his brain. _Don't fuck it up,_ said her eyes -- maybe not in so many ineloquent words, but the sentiment was there. More than the expectation that he succeed, which Kenpachi knew well and didn't give much of a shit about when it was coming from other people, was the possibility that he might actually disappoint someone in a way that could potentially make him feel like a piece of shit for having done so. It was similar to the way he felt when he looked at Yachiru -- similar, but definitely _not_ the same.

He wasn't a pervert. What hookers and girlfriends and even random lays he'd had over the years had, if anything, complained that he was way more vanilla than his appearance and aggressive demeanor advertised. A fight'd get his blood pumping, true, but a fight was a fight and fucking was fucking and the two were both enjoyable but very different forms of pleasure. Mix uppers and downers and you're left just feelin' like you, but with lighter pockets.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was a goddamn pansy in the sack -- he did still _fuck,_ after all. He didn't "make love," he wasn't "gentle and considerate" (although he prided himself on being _thorough_), and he didn't really care one way or the other whether or not whoever he happened to be with felt like stickin' around afterward. He just wasn't into all that hentai shit, ropes and collars and ball gags and power games. He didn't harbor any secret desire to be dominated, and anyone who'd seen him could draw their own conclusions in regard to his physical strength.

He liked his women to look and act like women. He liked 'em soft and in dresses, with long, undyed hair and minimal makeup, and when they didn't try to whitewash their eyes by stabbing their lids with little plastic forks. Vanilla _was_ his kink. Straightforward, no bullshit, no lies. Nice girls weren't something he encountered in his everyday life.

Until now, anyway.

He wasn't a pervert, but goddamn if he didn't feel like a walking hard-on at four weeks clean, when his previously junk-muzzled libido remembered all at once and _all the fuckin' time_ what it was there for, and all he could think about was _her._

Restless, restless -- _Retsu, Retsu,_ in every pump of his pulse. Retsu in that damned yukata wrapped loose around her curves the night he'd brought Yachiru to see her. Retsu in her uniform, in his memories and when she stopped by after school. Retsu in her feminine sweaters and knee-grazing skirts (did the woman even _own_ a pair of pants?), and her smell, all honey and flowers and tea, light and sweet and fucking _everywhere_ in her house, in her car, in his mind like a sickness he couldn't shake.

He chainsmoked and paced. He did push-ups until his arms shook and his muscles burned so hot he thought his skin might sear from the inside out, and sit-ups until his stomach felt the same. The punching bag in his living room was savaged to within one hit of splitting its seams, and when the knock on the door came at half-past five Kenpachi decided finally and fully that God was one sadistic son of a bitch and no mistake.

He answered it still drenched in sweat and breathing hard, hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles raw from repeated scrapings against frictive black leather.

Her mouth fell open at the sight of him, and it took every ounce of his self-restraint not to swoop down and close it with his own. She held a dripping umbrella in one hand. Her skin and the gauzy pink shell of her dress were rain-dappled, the damp giving rise to gooseflesh in the cool, air conditioned hallway of his building, and straining against sheer fabric he could see--

Kenpachi turned around, feeling heat pulse to life in his face, and lower.

"Kid's down for a nap in her crib," he heard himself say. "I gotta shower."

He didn't wait for her reply before stalking off down the short hallway that led to the small bathroom opposite his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, grabbed a towel from the cabinet under the sink and threw it on top of the toilet, turned the tap in the shower on cold and peeled off his sweat-soaked shorts. The icy spray bit into his hot skin like a hundred needles, and he hissed at the pain of it, but made no move to warm the water.

It helped, for a minute two -- until he realized he'd just directed her to his bedroom, where Yachiru's crib was, and neglected to grab any clean clothes before he'd holed himself up in the bathroom.

Damn it.

Kenpachi banged a fist against the wall in frustration. He breathed deeply, and tried to focus on willing his body into calming the fuck down. He closed his eyes--

_--Retsu in his room, near his bed -- __**on**__ his bed, in that dress -- __**not**__ in that dress, mouth open, legs parted archinguphandsreaching--_

--and discovered that that too was a bad, bad idea.

He violently shampooed his hair with the fragile hope that he might scrub his brain clean while he was at it.

No such luck.

Jerking off only exacerbated the problem. After months of opiate-induced celibacy, his body had little interest in his hand, especially with the knowledge that what it _did_ desire was only a room away, obliviously cuddling his three-month-old.

"Shit," he hissed, scouring his skin halfway to raw with a washcloth.

A few minutes later, he twisted off the tap and exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped loosely -- very loosely -- around his hips. Sure enough, because the universe hated him and he couldn't claim not to deserve it, he found her in his bedroom, gazing contemplatively at the infant sleeping soundly in her crib. She looked up at him, and for a long moment he could only stand there, dumbfounded and dripping, before she blushed and turned away, giving him leave to wordlessly storm over to his dresser, grab a pair of black jeans from one of the drawers, and storm back out again.

Kenpachi changed in the bathroom and made a minimal effort at raking the gnarls out of his wet hair with his fingers, more an act of frustration than one of grooming, then found her again, this time in his living room, examining his sparsely populated bookshelf. Her fingers lingered over the spines of a volume on psychedelic synthesis and Gray's Anatomy, and grazed The Art of War as she let her hand fall to her side.

Silence again strung itself between them, taut as a bowstring. It didn't break when she spoke, but rather seemed to twang and tremble.

". . .Yachiru seems well."

He grunted in response, shifted his feet, leaned against the wall, then stood straight again and folded his track-marked arms across his bare chest. He hadn't even thought to grab a shirt before, and now regretted that lapse. There needed to be more separating them -- more cloth, more space, more distance -- or nothing at all. The in-between made him itch with unease.

He spied a pack of cigarettes sitting on his kitchen counter, extracted one and lit it with unsteady hands.

"And how are you?" she asked.

"Fine," he said automatically; then, wryly, "Broke."

Unohana's brow creased. "Do you need--"

"No."

She nodded, and didn't try to press the offer.

". . .you shouldn't smoke in the same room as her."

"I'm not."

"Do you?"

Kenpachi exhaled. ". . .I won't anymore."

Another nod, this one approving.

He took another drag, then stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette on a waterlogged plate in the sink and tossed the butt in the trash -- but not because of what she'd said.

He wanted her out of there, wanted her gone as soon as humanly possible.

"So you got a cup for me ta piss in, or what?"

"Not today," Unohana admitted. "I just wanted to see y. . .Yachiru. Kurosaki-kun has been asking after her lungs."

"Look, lady, I get it, I won't smoke in front of the goddamn kid anymore," Kenpachi snapped, turning away from her under the pretense of washing the two plates and half-a-dozen bottle bags that occupied the sink.

"That wasn't an insinuation."

"Whatever. Is there anything else? I'm kinda busy."

". . .no, there's nothing else."

He perpetuated what he hoped was clearly dismissive silence. A few moments passed, and then a plate slipped from his fingers and clattered against the bowl of the sink when he felt her warm palm come to rest upon his left forearm.

She was touching him. She was next to him and she was touching him and and she smelled so goddamn _good._ . .her skin was only warm but it _burned_ and his throat closed up and his heart punched a hole through his stomach and something inside of him like a cable wound too tight fucking _broke--_

"Zaraki-kun, forgive me, but I must ask -- are you--"

He faced her fully, and he didn't know what the hell kind of expression he wore but whatever it was it caused her eyes to widen, and whatever she had been going to say swam off like a school of fish sensing a shark.

". . .Zaraki-ku--" Her breath hitched as his damp fingers found their own way to her throat, callused tips tracing the smooth, sweeping lines of her collar bones (_Like wings,_ he thought, chewing his tongue, _like fuckin' angel wings,_ and her parasol was resting, still wet, against his door), leaving a trail of sudsy water in their wake.

She looked from his hand up to his face as a sudden clarity dispelled the fog of apprehension in her gaze. Of course she knew what this was -- she was a nurse.

She was a woman.

And she wasn't telling him to stop.

Any other time, he might have done so of his own accord. He'd have felt like some sticky-fingered kid who'd ducked beneath the velvet ropes to grope at the Venus de Milo. He sullied her with his touch, he knew, and had a notion that she knew it, too, but still she wasn't telling him to stop. There was something to that, he thought, something philosophical or symbolic or profound about her muteness, like maybe statues secretly felt like glass-boxed dolls no child ever played with, who longed for tactile appreciation. Maybe she'd never been allowed outside in her ceremonial best but always wished for twigs in her hair and grass stains on her knees. Maybe he was just some late-onset collegiate experimentation about what it would be like to finally get her hands dirty.

Maybe a lot of things, but none of them mattered. Not then, at least. Kenpachi had never claimed to be a thinker, and as such had never underestimated the face value of anyone.

Her face could have passed for porcelain, and she was here, and she wasn't saying no.

Not when he almost carelessly brushed the left strap of her dress from her shoulder. Not when his fingers followed the sweetheart gradient of the garment's neckline down to dance across the valley between her breasts, nor when they rose to graze the gentle arc of her jaw, one thumb caressing the pillowy fullness of her bottom lip. The shaky heat of her breath against his skin ignited his blood like a cigarette dropped in a gasoline stream, suffusing his veins more quickly and more potently than any drug, and he felt blown toward her, pushed by some invisible force, more than that he stepped forward under his own power.

His mouth fell against hers without sweetness or restraint, and he was almost startled into stopping when he felt her arms wind around his neck instead of shoving him away; but then her tongue was pushing against his own with equal ardor, and the uncertainty he'd been expecting to feel in her actions was nowhere to be found. She wasn't saying no; she was saying _now,_ and he was in no condition to argue.

His hands traveled her body, displacing the flimsy fabric of her dress as they sought the unseen expanses of her curves, until he felt the raised and rippled skin of a scar roughly four inches long running horizontal along the slope of her hip, and froze.

_Blood, bone marrow. . ._

He moved his hand around to her back, and felt a second, smoother indentation, surgically straight. She stiffened against him, looked up at him with unreadable eyes.

_She would give anything for her patients._

Even this? Was that what this was -- treatment? Some fucking obligation to "alleviate the suffering" of the hapless, recovering junkie?

"They're not as ugly as they feel," she said, giving a small shrug. "At least, that's what I tell myself. But I don't regret them."

The last was spoken with startling harshness, defiance and pride. Jesus, did she think _that_ was the reason for his hesitation? That she was blemished and therefore undesirable? To someone like _him,_ of all people, whose skin could have doubled for a road map?

"That's not it," he said.

"Then what. . .?"

"I don't need any mercy fucks."

She actually laughed. "What?"

He stared at her.

". . .you're serious," she said.

Kenpachi regretted immediately that he'd opened his mouth to do anything more than kiss her. It was over now. He had given her an out of righteous indignation she could all too easily take without guilt at leaving him so unsatisfied. He could already hear the words: _How dare you_ and _Is that how you see me, as some sort of doormat to the diseased? A soup kitchen whore for the needy?_

But the words never came. Instead she reached behind her and took hold of his hand that rested against her back, and, still beneath the fabric of her dress, guided it around to her front, down along soft flesh until he felt thin silk beneath his skin; until he felt heat, and damp, and her breaths took on a shivery quality as his fingers curled into their discovery, telling him in no uncertain terms that, absurd and difficult to comprehend as the idea was to him, she _wanted_ this, and wasn't just letting it happen. She wanted _him._

The why of the matter could wait; he couldn't, not any longer.

The thin silk was pushed crudely, impatiently down to shackle her ankles, and he lifted her from its confines to set her atop the kitchen counter. Unohana scissored her legs around his waist and dragged him close, and Kenpachi swallowed, mouth and throat going dry at the feel of her small fingers at the waistband of his jeans and the weirdly magnified sound of his zipper being undone. He thought only fleetingly of the half-empty pack of condoms that had been collecting dust in the drawer of his nightstand -- too fuckin' far away. To hell with it, he decided. He knew he was clean -- Isshin had called just that past week to tell him so, and that the kid was, too -- and figured she must've known it as well; and she sure as shit had better have been on somethin', or else have had some goddamn low expectations, because one Yachiru was enough and he wasn't about to--

His breath caught in his throat and his inner diatribe slammed into a brick wall of shut-the-fuck-up when she met his gaze and held it intently as her hot, soft hand grasped and guided him inside a heavy, velvet heat that raided his senses and plundered any part of his mind that did not, at that moment, belong explicitly to her.

The air grew thick with the heady scents and frayed sounds of their fucking, noises of flesh and friction that resonated in the small kitchen with every frenetic snap of his hips and brutal dueling of their tongues. Sobriety sharpened every sensation: her teeth in his bottom lip, and the dig of her heels into the backs of his legs. The rub of his jeans against his sides from the rhythmic tightening of her thighs as she matched her motions to his. The taste of her, cool and mint-sweet. The growing pitch of her breathy whimpers in his ear, and his own surprise when they suddenly tapered into an unmistakable, half-choked gasp that was all it took to break the already splintered dam of his control and send his long-hindered orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He clung to her, trembling and eyes tightly shut, until the intensity of the flood receded, and his breathing gradually calmed.

Then he looked at her.

Shouldn't have, but did.

The silence between them felt desperately awkward -- another unwanted new experience brought about by the sudden influx of goddamn females into his life. Kenpachi felt he should say something, but what? A thank you? An apology? Now that the lust that had been prowling his brain had been subdued enough for him to think, he was paralyzed by the onslaught of reservations it had been holding at bay.

His bruising grip on her relaxed. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdrew from her, and she slid down from the counter back onto her feet. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress, located her panties on the linoleum floor and slipped them on while he tucked himself back into his jeans.

"I. . .I'll be back in a couple of days," she said after a moment, then nodded to herself as though agreeing for him in lieu of the stony silence that made up his reply.

He really, really wanted to kiss her again, but felt somehow that he couldn't, that he no longer had an excuse to do so. Instead, he watched her leave -- a little shakily, as if she wanted nothing more than to bolt from his apartment but refused to stomach the indignity of a hasty retreat. Of course she couldn't wait to get away, now that she'd realized what -- who -- she'd done. She'd had her fun, or whatever it was she'd been after; it would be all business from here on out.

Good, Kenpachi told himself. As long as that was clear between them. As long as she had no regrets -- or, if she did, as long as she kept them to herself. If Isshin showed up bitching that he had indeed taken advantage of sweet, delicate Retsu-chan. . .

Or would Isshin bother showing up at all?

What if he decided to skip the formalities of a confrontation and go straight to sending the cops in his stead?

No, she wouldn't, and she wouldn't let that crackpot doc do something like that even if she _did. . ._would she?

Fuck, Kenpachi had to be _sure. . ._

He opened the door, prepared to sprint after her--

--only to be greeted by her small fist, poised to knock, level with his chest.

She spoke without looking at him, "I forgot my umbr--"

The sentence ended in a small squeak of surprise as he grabbed her by the elbow and jerked her back inside his apartment, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Zaraki-kun?"

Confusion shimmered across her face -- but not revulsion, he noted hopefully. She didn't cringe away from him, and she didn't look as though she was on the verge of tears.

"Sensei," he said. The title sounded absurd now, coming from him. "Unohana," he amended, "--san. What. . ." It sounded stupid before he'd even said it, but he forced it out anyway. "What is this to you?"

She blinked at him rapidly, frowning.

"It's. . .w-what do you want it to be?"

"That's not an answer."

"It wasn't a fair question," she argued.

"There's nothing in this life that's fair. What the fuck is this? I have to know."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Zaraki-kun, but I only have half the answer."

"And?" he demanded impatiently.

Unohana opened her mouth, but her words remained tightly cocooned in her throat. She shook her head.

"No?" he asked. "No what? 'No, it's nothing?'" _Say yes. Fuck, please say yes. . ._

"No, it's. . .it's not _nothing,_ I. . .why? What is it to _you?_"

"Another bad idea on a long fuckin' list."

He'd made no attempt to soften the blow, and it stung her visibly.

"I see. . ." she murmured, her gaze drifting downward, and then back up again. "Why?"

Christ, she was gonna make him say it, wasn't she?

"Look, Sen-- Unohana-san. . .don't think I don't appreciate everything you've done, for the kid and. . .for me. But you don't want this. My life's been nothin' but a fight since day one. It's not. . .you're too good for this shit, okay? You're too good for me. And don't try ta pretend that isn't true, because we both know it is. And it's fine. It's nothin' I can't accept, or that I haven't accepted already. You'd never fit into my life like this and I'd sure as hell never fit into yours--"

He met with her small fist again -- specifically, his jaw did, and with a hell of a lot more force than he'd have ever expected to reside in such healing hands. The blow actually sent him staggering back a step -- owing to his being caught off-guard, of course.

"What the f--"

She hit him again, a returning backhand to the other side of his face. He caught her arm by the wrist before she could withdraw it completely.

"Goddamn it, woman, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "I'm fighting for you."

"What--"

She drove the (thankfully flat but still motherfucking _vicious_) heel of her strappy, shell-encrusted sandal into the top of his foot. Kenpachi swore and hopped on one leg, overbalanced and, still hanging onto her, took her with him to the floor, twisting around in mid-fall to land hard on his shoulder to keep from crushing her (although fuck knew why, the underhanded little--).

"If you've had to fight for every other part of your life," Unohana went on, seeming not to notice their change in location, "then why not this, too?"

Her free hand raised, but Kenpachi was prepared this time, and caught it with his own before it could crack across his cheek. She looked at him imploringly, the closest he'd seen her come to a glare.

"This isn't nothing to me, Zaraki Kenpachi. You have never been 'nothing' to me, even when you were a student. You are so much more than you allow yourself to believe. You are _so_ strong, in so many ways. I never would have helped you as I have, had I thought otherwise. I never would have. . ." She trailed off, reddening, and changed tack, ". . .if your opinion of me truly is so high, then please do me the honor of trusting my judgment and the integrity of my actions."

Kenpachi glowered down at her.

He didn't _want_ her. He didn't.

He didn't want her nosing around in his business anymore than she already was. He wasn't disappointed -- in unacknowledged secret -- every time she left his apartment. He had no interest in further hearing her soft encouragements, or the bell-like sound of her rare laughter when he was inadvertently funny by making an ass out of himself. And now that he'd had her, felt her, tasted her, held her, he most certainly had no desire to do so again, especially not on a regular basis.

"I won't change for you," he warned. "There's no fuckin' diamond beneath the rough, and there never will be."

"If I wanted a diamond, Zaraki-kun, I would long ago have had one on my finger. --I can't feel my hands, by the way."

Kenpachi released her wrists, and was abashed to see them ringed with livid red from the force of his grip.

"Suman. . ." he muttered.

"It's all right," Unohana said quietly. "I'm sorry as well, for hitting you, and for stepping on your foot."

"Don't worry about it."

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. She pushed herself up, and rested a hand against his stomach. He tensed.

"I'm a big girl, Zaraki-kun," she told him. "I'm not looking for a declaration of love, nor am I seeking to give one. This needn't be. . .complicated."

". . .good," he said after a moment, then closed his eyes and inhaled sharply as she leaned down to replace the touch of her hand with the warm press of her lips. A second kiss followed the first, lower this time, and then a third, a fourth. . .

* * *

In this way, Zaraki Kenpachi had traded heroin for heroines, and he and Retsu conducted their affair like a drug deal -- with intense discretion and, when necessary, in code. She couldn't know him publicly without risking interrogation from "well-meaning" (her words) friends and colleagues, which might in turn lead to his being interrogated in a single-bulb room on his fitness as a parent to Yachiru. It wasn't complicated -- no more so than anything else, anyway -- but it _was_ a pain in the ass.

Or maybe just a pain, to not be able to name it, to not be able to name her as his own.

Maybe.

Maybe a lot of things, but after eight months, the only one he knew for certain was that he still didn't have a label for what they were, apart from Not Nothing. They'd never discussed their exclusivity, but she had no other men that he knew of, and he no other girls, aside from Yachiru (and, he occasionally suspected, Yumichika). He did his best not to question her motives for wanting to be with him, and tried to just consider himself damned lucky that she did. She adored Yachiru, and the feeling was reciprocated, if the way the kid's face'd light up whenever he mentioned Retsu's name was any indication; but their mutual attachment nagged at him as much as it pleased him, not because of its existence, but because of what it represented.

He'd never been one to think about the future, but he couldn't escape the fact that, someday soon, he would have to begin thinking about Yachiru's. It was pointless to think about forever, just as it was pointless to pretend that she would never know the pain of disappointment, or that she wouldn't possibly learn it first from the nurse's departure from their lives. And that was okay. He'd make sure that she grew up strong enough to withstand anything life could throw at her, and until then, he would do what he could to take the brunt of the blows.

He hadn't lied to Retsu that day in his apartment. He would not change for her sake -- but even then, he had already begun to do so for Yachiru's.

While a college fund wasn't anywhere near being one of his main concerns (the extent of her education beyond high school, he decided, would be her own choice), he knew that he couldn't be swinging by to pick her up from school on his way to a drop-off, either. And fuck, what would happen when she sprouted tits, and his customers began to enquire if she was part of his merchandise? (He'd kill 'em dead, that's what, but what if they didn't ask? Stealing from him was undoubtedly one of the most fucking stupid ideas that could douche its way through a person's brain, but not everyone he dealt with _had_ working brains. He'd still kill 'em dead, but the damage would be done, and the very thought of it nauseated him to the point of wanting to introduce the sinus cavity into the frontal lobe of every man he saw. It was bad for business, thinkin' like that. It was bad for his sanity, too.)

She deserved better, and he would get her there in his usual way: eventually, after a few wrong turns and busted-through dead-ends.

At first, he hadn't had much of a choice when it came to dealing again (albeit this time leaving his wares thoroughly examined but staunchly unsampled). Yachiru was too young to leave alone while he worked an honest job, and although Retsu was great about takin' care of the kid whenever he had something too dangerously inappropriate for children that he had to handle, she worked, too, and he wasn't about to treat her like some fuckin' babysitter he kept on retainer.

She was less than pleased when she found out about his renewed entrepreneurship, when she caught sight of him passing a package -- a package that would've actually been legal, if it hadn't been hot -- to Yumi (who didn't know fuckin' _grazie_ from _ciao,_ as far as Kenpachi knew, but whatever got his fruity rocks off) across the street from the Academy one day after school.

"You're selling to my students, aren't you?" she'd confronted him that evening, at his place, where he made no effort to hide the chemistry equipment that had become a skyrise complex of cobwebs during his detox and was now once again burning and bubbling as he tested his latest shipment from Aramaki.

"Better me than somebody else," he reasoned with a shrug. "If they want the shit, they're gonna get it. You got any idea what people are cutting drugs with these days? At least when they buy from me I can guarantee it's clean."

"You know what I could take away from you with this knowledge."

"Yeah, I do. Just like I know you won't."

"Don't test me, Kenpachi."

"Don't lie to me, Retsu. Look, I ain't a fuckin' narc. I'm not gonna run and tattle to you every time those kids need to unwind on a weekend. But if it ever gets to be more than that, if I ever think they might be havin' a little too much fun a little too often, you'll know, okay? You have my word on that."

She'd said nothing to that, and hadn't spoken to him about it since, although he'd have been a damned fool to interpret her silence as approval. But what could she do? He wasn't using personally and he wasn't wrong, and the promise of a heads-up was substantially more than she'd have gotten otherwise.

It would be easier, perhaps, if she knew what he was developing alongside those less legitimate formulations -- a strategy he thought he might actually be able to follow, and one for which she had unwittingly drawn the first line, when her slim fingers grazed two books that had always been sitting side-by-side but that he had never before thought to put _together. . ._

. . .but it wasn't ready yet. _He_ wasn't ready yet, and until then, they -- all three of them -- would remain in the shallows and the shadows, Not Nothing, until he could make Something of himself.

"What is it?" Retsu asked, and he realized that he'd been staring at her, at her holding his child in her arms, and he felt suddenly like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

"Nothing," he said, bells jingling when he shook his head. "I, uh. . .I won you somethin'."

She blinked owlishly as he handed her a plastic baggy heavy with water, and held it up against the light of the moon. A goldfish, bulbous and pale, shimmered within, its fins fluttering at the disturbance of its small world.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. Her smile did strange things to his stomach, made it feel like he'd just taken a dive on the Kamikaze.

Kenpachi cleared his throat.

"So, you ready ta get outta here?"

She nodded. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine," he replied quickly, craving more familiar turf. "I'll follow you."

He stood, and took Yachiru from her so that she could, too. They didn't hold hands as they walked toward the parking field, but the space between them was far from empty.

And someday, Kenpachi resolved, someday he would know what to call it.

* * *

_An' now my four-wheel'll steer you 'round__**  
Sucking a new life  
**My voodoo master, my machine, baby, will not stand in line__  
A sick boy, sick boy, goin' 'round, baby, the illusion is real  
Baby, wanna take you out with me, come along on my death trip. . ._ -- Iggy Pop & the Stooges, "Death Trip"

* * *

**A/N:** _Yeah, so. . .apparently I suck at deadlines. Sorry. But the holiday crunch is now over, so. . .fingers crossed? &, uh, due to my being entirely MIA computer-wise for a bit, I cannot for the life of me remember who I review-replied to last & who I still owe. But this will be rectified, however tardily, as I sift through my scarily spam-laden inbox. Ditto PM's -- I know I saw at least one lurking around in there. Eep. ó.ò; _

_Anyway, there we have a bit of Ken-chan's backstory. I hope I did him justice. Yachiru's mother's name, Nanashi (as fans of MÄR will probably know), means "nameless," chosen as much because I dislike most OC's in fanfiction, my own included, as because of my trying to be clever._

_More art plugs! At __**kinichikun dot deviantart dot com/art/Dissipated-loneliness-101500330**__, you'll find some post-festival G/K sweetness done by XKinraiu-chanX that I would so cuddle if it wasn't two-dimensional & locked inside a pixelated screen. XD There's also further awesomeness up at __**voldie-riddle**__'s gallery -- go and see! She drew the makeout scene (8D bring tissues!) & Renji getting pwned (hee!), amongst other lovelycool things._

_Mythalie169-Treespirit169, re: your question, yes, "I would that it were longer" is what I meant to write. "I would that. . ." is an archaic expression of wishful thinking, an old-fashioned way of saying "If I had my way, such & such would happen." My Yumichika uses it because. . .well, he's a pretentious little bastard, & it's just what came out of his mouth. ;D Thought I'd answer that here in case it made anyone else go "Eh?"_

_Thank you, everyone, for reading!_


	12. The Liquid Engineers

**XII. The Liquid Engineers**

* * *

"_I'm. . .dreaming. . .of a white. . .Christmas. . .just like the ones I used to know. . ._"

Izuru's mouth quirked up in a wry smile as Gin sang along with Bing Crosby, whose smooth, mellow voice filtered through the speakers scattered throughout Las Noches Plaza. The fox-faced boy -- now his fox-faced boyfriend, he corrected himself, smile widening -- seemed to know the lyrics to every Christmas carol in existence and, more importantly, had the voice and nearly non-existent accent (in English, anyway) to pull them off.

Of course, he admitted, that could just be his personal bias speaking, but it made him feel good -- proud -- just the same. Even Renji's absence from school on this, Christmas Eve and their last day before winter recess, couldn't find the fingerholds to occupy his mind for longer than a fleeting twinge of worry. (The redhead had phoned Aizen the day before, "sick with a bad head cold" and staying at Rukia's until he felt well enough to make the trip home.)

Gin simply made him too happy to feel anxious, even when faced with the stares and poorly-concealed snickerings of their classmates as they'd walked through the halls hand-in-hand; even now, when confronted with the similar reactions of passers-by as they wandered the mall, arms looped loosely around one another's waist. On the contrary, Izuru felt bold and defiant, and not a little bit certain that, had he been with anyone less than Gin -- even if that someone had been a girl -- his discomfort with such public displays of affection would have manifested threefold.

But he wasn't, and it didn't, and nervous, timid Kira Izuru had very nearly mustered up the gumption to throw caution to the wind and flat-out _kiss_ Gin in full public view -- not while everyone's back was turned, not while judgmental eyes were so focused on the sky as to be functionally blind to their actions; but here, now, in the middle of the plaza, with not even the leaves of a potted fern to conceal their attraction.

Nearly.

He thought he might be in love.

He hadn't said as much aloud, of course, and didn't plan on doing so anytime in the near future, but the notion was already incubating inside a small, warm pocket of his mind, even if it was "too soon," even if he knew that other people would shake their heads in derision and call it "puppy love." What other emotion could have sent the stones which had made a nest of his belly since he could remember feel well on their way to dissolving, or that they had cracked and sprouted flowers sunny as marigolds? What other word was there for the impatience he felt every night before falling asleep for morning to come so that he could see Gin again? And his writing -- he'd been writing every day, overflowing with words now, filling page after page with poetry before he went to bed, transcribing the rhythms of something he somehow knew but had yet to learn, something universal he felt on the cusp of experiencing for the very first time.

And Izuru had an inkling that Gin felt the same, if the older boy's downright _goofy_ demeanor these past three days was any indication. If Izuru couldn't wait to wake up and see Gin, then neither could Gin wait to be seen. Izuru had opened his eyes Saturday morning to a garnet-eyed smile that, under any other circumstances, would have creeped him the hell out -- and he'd startled, true, but his yelp of surprise had turned into a laugh, and his initial nervousness when Gin, still clad in his clothes from the night before, had burrowed under the covers and wrapped his long limbs around Izuru's slender form, quickly ebbed when the silver-haired boy did nothing but lie there, cuddling him tightly.

It had been a strange feeling -- comforting, but tense. Izuru didn't think he had ever in his life been so conscious of his own body -- and of someone else's -- than in those few minutes' ambivalence between the demands of his heart and those of his bladder. He'd been almost afraid to move, almost afraid (yet eager) for Gin to move, to scoot his thigh up a little higher, to press his hips a little more firmly into Izuru's side. Showering had become an equally harrowing experience, with the knowledge of Gin, pale skin slick with soap suds, only a fiberglass partition away -- and, looking down, with the knowledge of his own physique, or lack thereof: the depth of the hollows behind his collar bones, the knobbiness of his knees and the flat, comically skinny expanse of his chest. He was now making a concerted effort to eat more (about which Aizen, at least, seemed pleased), but the thought of being naked with Gin, exciting though it was, also filled him with trepidation that whatever it was about him that appealed to the older boy would vanish in a puff of smoke once Gin saw what _wasn't_ waiting for him beneath Izuru's baggy sweaters and narrow jeans.

Although, Izuru thought as Gin snared him into a spinning hug that sent his feet swinging dangerously close to a display of reindeer antler headbands during the chorus of "All I Want for Christmas Is You," being underweight did have its occasional advantages. . .

He was set back on his feet to the flash of a camera bulb and a high-pitched squeal of "Shounen aiii!!"

Izuru shyly ducked his head as Rangiku and Yumichika, both heavily laden with shopping bags, approached, their flawless faces adorned with approving grins.

"Do it again, do it again!" Rangiku urged, fiddling with the buttons on the shiny new digital camera she held in her hands. "This does video, too!"

"Mou, Ran-chan, ain'tcha s'posed ta be shoppin' for _other_ people?"

Rangiku waved him off. "It's for the betterment of Soul Society." She was fuku- to Shuuhei's editor-in-chief of Seireitei's school newspaper. "Higher quality photographs will produce a higher quality paper. And anyway, it was on sale."

"Or it was placed on sale as soon as the store manager butted in to wait on her," smirked Yumi. "We're testing the theory that Matsumoto-chan's personal discounts are directly proportional to the number of times she jumps up and down in excitement over the products she's shown."

"And?" asked Gin.

"We're holding out on calling it a law until she can skip her way into a car at below dealer invoice price, but it's close."

Gin smiled proudly. "That's my girl."

Rangiku beamed, but sobered quickly. "Now, pucker up. My readers demand fanservice."

"Oh, leave them be, Matsumoto-chan," Yumi scolded her gently. "One cannot rush the blooming of romantic buds without risking tearing their petals off prematurely."

Izuru let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and hoped the androgyne was perceptive enough to catch the gratitude in his gaze.

"Mm, true," Rangiku relented with a little shrug. "Nothing kills the mood faster than the premature evacuation of petals."

"Quite right, quite right." Yumichika nodded in agreement. "And speaking of delicate blossoms, I believe we ought to collect Ikkaku and Tetsu-san from the game center before Grand Theft Auto drives away with the last of their savings. We'll meet you boys at the west entrance in oh, say, one hour?"

Gin shrugged. "Sounds good." He turned to Izuru. "You hungry?"

It was on the tip of Izuru's tongue to say no, but he thought better of it. "Maybe a little."

They made their way to the food court, but once there, Izuru frowned in confusion as Gin led him not to the taco stand or fried chicken counter, but between the two, ushering him hastily through a door marked with an 'Employees Only' sign that opened into an empty corridor lined with other doors, presumably to various storage rooms.

"Gin, where are we--"

His question was cut short as Gin kissed him thoroughly, surprise opening Izuru's mouth and allowing entrance to the silver-haired boy's steel-studded tongue.

"Fanservice," Gin explained when they broke apart, wrapping cold fingers around the nape of the younger boy's neck.

"But w-what if," Izuru stammered, his eyes growing half-lidded as Gin's mouth traced a path along his throat while he spoke, "what if someone comes in?"

Gin nipped gently at Izuru's earlobe, and spoke in a whisper that doubled his kouhai's heart rate, "What if someone don't?"

* * *

"And stay out!" Tsukabishi-sensei, topped with a toque and wielding a whisk like a truncheon, shouted after a fleeing Rin and Hanatarou before disappearing back inside the kitchen at the Pure Souls house. The two boys, white-faced but laughing, didn't spare their elders so much as a glance as they grabbed their shoes and pushed past Gin, Izuru, Iba and Rangiku on their way through the front door.

"Coats!" came Aizen's all-knowing voice from the dining room, to be answered with much rapid backpedaling, closet-rummaging, and darting again out-of-doors.

"I don't think I'll ever figure out how he does that," Rangiku shook her head, toeing off her boots in the genkan before lugging the vast bulk of her purchases up to the girls' dormitories. "Isaneee!" she trilled ahead of herself. "Come and see what the sunglasses kiosk guy gave me!"

On the boys' side of the house, Izuru was surprised to find the door to his and Renji's room open, and even more surprised to find not only Renji, but Rukia within. The redhead, his nose still inflamed and swollen, but not obviously broken, was doing push-ups on his knuckles on the floor, while his diminutive companion lay sprawled on her front on his bed, flipping through the latest issue of FRUiTS. Both paused in their activities at Izuru's arrival, and the air thickened noticeably with awkward tension.

"Hey," Izuru cautiously ventured, setting down his bags next to his dresser.

"Hey," the two replied in unison.

"I'll just, uh, go see what Matsumoto-san bought," Rukia delicately excused herself and closed the door behind her.

With a sigh, Renji ceased his push-ups and righted himself, sitting on the floor with his back against his bed. He seemed to be waiting for Izuru to speak first, and so he did.

"I didn't expect you to be back so soon."

"Che," Renji snorted (then winced). "And trade one of Tsukabishi-sensei's Christmas dinners for the Kentakkii of the masses? It'd take more than the wrath of a scrawny wimp like you to keep me away."

"Gee, thanks."

"Anytime."

Silence did its thing.

"Abarai-kun, I--"

"Look, Kira--"

Their voices collided, retreated.

". . .you go first," said Izuru.

Renji nodded, and took a preparatory breath.

"Look, Kira, I've. . .I did some thinking over at Rukia's -- I know it doesn't happen often, but I did -- anyway, I. . .I'm not gonna apologize for what I did. I still think Fox-Face is some bad fuckin' news, and I still think you're an idiot for not seeing that-- _Lemme finish,_" Renji raised his voice to counter Izuru's automatic protest. ". . .but I also realized that it doesn't really matter what I think. You're gonna do what you're gonna do. But, Kira. . .your my friend, and I'll admit it, I get retarded about my friends. Believe me, I know how shitty life can be when there's no one there to stand up for you when maybe you can't stand up for yourself. And even though I wasn't there. . .I would've tried to talk you down. If I see you about to do some stupid shit, I will _always_ try to talk you down. That's just the way I am, and you can either accept it, or you can't. I'm never gonna like Ichimaru. I'm never gonna like that you do. But if his weird, nutjob ass somehow makes you happy. . ."

"He does," Izuru asserted.

Renji sighed. "Well, then, I'm just gonna have to live with that. Literally. But I'm not gonna pretend it doesn't bother me, or that I don't owe him a punch in the face. I'm never gonna stop tryin' to talk you out of him, and _you're_ just gonna have to live with _that,_ okay?"

It wasn't, not completely, but Izuru knew that, for now, it was the best he was going to get.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks, Abarai-kun. But I. . .I _am_ sorry, for the things I said. I really didn't mean for it to sound like. . .well, you know. And I don't blame you for not being there. You're no less of a friend to me _now_ just because you weren't then -- not that you weren't trying to be. Honestly, if it _had_ been you, I don't know if I. . ." Izuru sat down on his bed with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "This is starting to sound really bad. It's just that. . .that night on the roof, I ended up talking to the only person who made even less sense than I did at the time. I mean, looking back, it was almost like _I_ ended up being the one to talk _him_ down. . ." He shook his head.

"Hey," said Renji, "you don't gotta talk about it if you don't want to. But look on the bright side -- I can hate him for a lotta things, but convincing you to come back inside's not one of 'em. That's something, right?"

Izuru smiled halfway. "It's a start."

"Good. So, we square?"

"Yeah, Abarai-kun. We're square."

Renji held out his hand, and Izuru shook it firmly.

"Cool. Oi, and you know, speakin' of tryin' to save your stubborn ass, I ended up leaving Kuchiki-sensei hanging like a bride at the fuckin' altar to do it. "

"What do you mean?" Izuru frowned. "You found him?"

"I did. Things were going really well, too -- I think. But then I saw you and Fox-Face and 'Be right back, Sensei!'" the redhead mimicked himself, smiling and waving inanely. "And thanks to the number your fucking boyfriend did on my face, nope, I wasn't."

Izuru paled. "Oh, Abarai-kun. . .God, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well. . .up until then, I think I was rackin' up some points, so hopefully that'll offset the damage."

"It probably will," Izuru agreed, more for Renji's benefit than the honest belief that Kuchiki-sensei would exercise any uncharacteristic leniency. The man reacted to mere tardiness as though it possessed an intolerably unpleasant smell; Izuru couldn't begin to imagine the disdain with which he would greet having been stood up completely.

"Yeah," Renji said again, as if to convince himself, "hopefully."

"Oh -- here. . ." Izuru dug around in his bookbag and extracted a subject-changing manila folder thick with papers. "Aizen-san had me go around to all of your teachers today to collect your winter recess assignments. And there's this--" He handed Renji a small violet envelope that smelled faintly of wisteria. "There was one in the locker of almost every upperclassman. I couldn't get into yours, of course, but I assume you got one, too."

"Aa," Renji nodded, ripping into the envelope and flicking open the card inside. "He does this every year. Can't just pass out flyers or somethin' like a normal person. . ."

Izuru already knew well what the invitation said, but he read it again over Renji's shoulder anyway.

_Ayasegawa Yumichika__  
requests the pleasure of your company__  
at a New Year's Eve Celebration  
__7:00 p.m. -- the discretion of the Rukongai Police Department  
__on Monday, the 31st of December__  
at his home__  
3-11-5 Ruri'iro, Kuja-ku, Rukongai  
__Attire is Casual__  
Music to be provided by  
The Vizored_

"So _that's_ why he wanted to talk to Muguruma-san," Renji mumbled to himself. "Awesome."

"To who?" asked Izuru.

"Muguruma Kensei, Shuuhei's step-brother. He plays rhythm guitar for the Vizored, this local band. They're pretty good. Bleach Beat just offered them a record deal, but they're not sure if they wanna go through the hassle of negotiating with a big label. Anyway, they're suited to the task -- Yumi's parties are the stuff of fucking _legend._"

"Oh." Izuru frowned thoughtfully. "Does Ayasegawa-san actually _have_ parents, or just a couple of commissioned portraits and three kinds of handwriting for forging signatures?"

"The debate is still ongoing. I think Sousuke even talked to him about becoming a Lost Soul once, but Yumi said he's content with his situation. Shit, if I had the run of a house like his, I would be, too. Plus it's not like he's ever really by himself. Ikkaku's always there when his folks aren't, and if he ain't, it's not like anyone who looks like Yumi is ever lonely for very long if they don't wanna be."

"Good point -- except when it comes to Hisagi-san."

"Eh. . ." Renji shrugged. "Senpai's a tough nut to crack, sure, but I've never known Yumichika to give up on a conquest until it's, well, conquered. I don't think his ego will let him. Haven't known him to ever be wrong about anyone bein', you know" -- he made a vague gesture with his hand -- "either. Hisagi'd be the first, but he's been sprung on Matsumoto since forever, so. . .it's a crap shoot."

Izuru smirked. "I'm surprised no one's taken bets."

Renji stared at him. "You mean you haven't been let in on the pool yet?"

". . .you're joking."

"Tell me how much money you got, then I'll tell you if I'm joking."

"I am _not_ listening to this. . ."

"Hey, wait! I'm serious!"

"I'll see you at dinner, Abarai-kun."

"But -- Kira--!"

* * *

Gin prodded curiously at the mottled, red-purple bruise that now adorned his neck atop the tendon-strung bridge between his throat and right shoulder. His smile stuttered somewhere between a frown and a smirk.

He'd never had a hickey before.

No marks -- that was one of Sousuke's top rules, an absolutely unbreakable commandment. There could be no stones to turn, no evidence left behind. Gin and Sousuke together ceased to be, like the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest. They happened without happening. They occurred, but did not exist. It was a law that had been comforting in its time, an illustration (or lack thereof) of the stark contrast that could be drawn between acts of power and those of genuine adoration.

That Izuru would be the one to bridge that gap seemed funny to Gin, and not a little unreal. The blond was only alive, after all, thanks to Gin's prompting; he, and the marks he imparted, presented themselves only because Gin had willed them back to life. It was almost as if Izuru didn't really exist at all, except as a fragment of Gin's own whimsical desire. He wondered, if such were the case, if to bed the boy could be termed a kind of masturbation. He wondered if it would be considered incest, if Frankenstein fucked his monster of a foster son.

Even deadly little Lolita had said as much of her dalliances with hairy-fisted Humbert. If the sins of the father truly did afflict unto several generations, then wouldn't, Gin surmised with a smile, wouldn't they all be utterly _aghast_ at the things their precious Hinamori-chan would one day reveal had been concealed within her sleeves? Leviticus and Kings, Chronicles and Ezra and Psalms, Nehemiah, Jeremiah, Isaiah, Daniel and Mary Shelley Mother of God knew Sousuke had stuffed Gin's own with barbed throwing stars and aces. . .

"_'I was her equal,'_" Gin quietly quoted to himself in the bathroom mirror,"_'a faunlet in my own right, on that same enchanted island of time.'_"

His mind traveled the backward span of three hours, back to an empty corridor, and the hot, hard feel of foreign bones and skin attempting to defy geometry and wrap fluidly around his own lean, angular form. Gin and Kira Izuru fit together like Tetris pieces -- the unyielding corner of an elbow, the last-second crook of a knee filling in a hollow space that might otherwise have incurred a game-ending pile-up -- and Gin was nowhere near ready to stop playing, even though he had been the one to halt their earlier explorations at Las Noches.

It wasn't nervousness, per se; but unlike Rangiku, Izuru possessed an aura of impending tragedy, like a pet bought already ill and given a home only so that it might live out its last few days in ignorant comfort. It was difficult to get close to such a thing. . .and difficult not to want to regardless. A sick puppy could still snuggle. An imaginary friend could still occupy a place at the table, when an adult was feeling indulgent.

And there lay the crux of the matter: three days had passed and still Gin's guardian had said nothing, done nothing to indicate his disapproval of the change in Gin's attachment to the newest Lost Soul. That was fine: Sousuke was a patient man, and Gin himself had learned to be so, for both their sakes. No -- what galled him was a persisting notion that he was being _allowed_ Izuru, that his time with the blond was a gift, and not a stolen artifact. Gin refused to feel thankful for it, refused to succumb to gratitude for that which was being taken, and not bestowed.

It was simple psychology, semantics and perception: Sousuke was yielding to Gin, and would come to do so on Gin's own terms. He was giving Gin nothing until Gin decided he was giving _in;_ only then would the moment be right. Gin had loaded the gun and spun the chamber, but only when he heard the bullet click into place could he dare point that barrel at Aizen Sousuke's perfect countenance. He would get only one shot, and he couldn't afford to miss it, couldn't afford to confuse Spin the Bottle with Russian Roulette.

Still, it was difficult, difficult to change a half-life-long way of thinking, despite his being hell-bent on swimming against the habitual current of his stream-of-consciousness.

They were so different, Gin's two lovers, his almost- and all-but-former: their bodies, Sousuke's ideal Vitruvian masculinity and Izuru's lanky, adolescent waifishness; their smells, equally warm, but Izuru's more ambery, a mellow vanilla to Sousuke's earthy spice; their demeanors, calm authority contrasting skittish meekness.

And Gin between them both, with his wiry strength, his submission to one and power over the other, his. . .

He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth like a surgical mask and breathed in deep, then let it drop with a shrug. Soap and fabric softener, but he had no particular scent of his own that he could detect.

Gin rotated his neck, cracking loose joints, then left the bathroom, only to bump immediately into something small, dark and, if he were so inclined as to judge the appearances of the opposite sex, handsome.

"Gomenasai, Rukia-chan," he smiled, steadying her with a hand on one slender shoulder. "I was lookin' where I was goin', 'stead of at the ground."

Rukia glared and jerked out of his grasp. "Ichimaru."

Gin feigned shock. "What, no honorific? I done somethin' wrong, Rukia-chan?"

"You hurt Renji."

Gin smiled at her, counting the beats, waiting just one too long. ". . .so I did, Rukia-chan. So I did. I'm real sorry 'bout that."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "No you're not."

"No," he admitted, shrugging cheerfully, "I'm not." He stepped close and bent down so that his face was level with hers. "But I'll tell 'im so anyway, if ya want. If ya ask me pretty."

Rukia visibly suppressed a shudder and took a step back. "You're a creep, Ichimaru."

Gin laughed, a light, tittering chuckle. "If you say so."

Down the hall, a door opened. Izuru stepped out of it, and Rukia wordlessly skirted past him to dart within.

"See ya 'round, Rukia-chan," Gin called after her, to predictably no response.

He only smiled at the puzzled look Izuru sent his way.

"What was that all about?" the blond asked.

Gin shrugged again. "Beats me."

"Um. . .okay. . ." Izuru looked unconvinced, but didn't pursue the issue. "Ano, Abarai-kun is home."

Gin sighed in disappointment. "So I gathered. He always manages ta sniff his way back sooner or later. My room, then."

It was early yet, despite their shopping trip -- half an hour until dinner at least. Gin took Izuru's hand and led him to the room he shared with Iba, who was sprawled on his bed, thumbing through a photobook of Yakuza irezumi.

"Time for butt sex!" Gin announced, jokingly but with the desired effect of his roommate's humorously hasty departure from the dorm.

"You shouldn't say such things," Izuru chided him.

"Why not? It got him ta leave, didn't it?"

"Well, yes, but. . ."

Gin tilted his head and regarded the blond with amusement.

"But what? You don' want him thinkin' we already engage in that kind o'scandalous vulgarity?"

Izuru examined the seams of his socks, curling his toes inside them like cashew nuts.

"Have. . .have you ever, before. . .?"

"Maa, you wouldn't want me ta say such things, would you, Izuru-chan?" the fox-faced boy tsked. "Kissin' an' tellin' is bad manners."

"Of course. . ." Izuru said distantly. Wrapping his arms around himself, he sank down onto Gin's bed and mumbled, "I'm sorry. I just. . .I love being with you, I do, and I want to be with you _more,_ eventually, but I. . ."

Frowning, Gin sat down next to him, folding his long legs lotus-style. He reached up to tuck Izuru's forelock behind the boy's left ear, then cupped his angular cheek, turning his head so that he faced his senpai. Worry creased Izuru's brow.

"Doesn't it, you know, _hurt?_" Izuru asked.

_Sometimes,_ Gin wanted to say, to console and encourage, _not always. Not when you're doin' it right._

Wanted to, but couldn't, not without further prying open that which he had long ago swallowed the key to lock safely away. He changed the subject.

The blond yielded after only a moment, closing his eyes and gently caressing Gin's tongue with his own.

". . .did _that_ hurt, Izuru-chan?"

"N-no, of course not--"

Gin leaned forward, hugging his arms around Izuru's torso and nuzzling his face into his kouhai's warm belly, inhaling amber and vanilla.

"Izuru-chan, my Izuru-chan. . ."

"G. . .Gin. . .?"

A tentative hand gradually came to rest atop Gin's head. Slowly, warm fingers began to comb through the silver strands of his hair, and he hummed in contentment at one of his favorite forms of contact.

"Mou, Izuru-chan, what do I smell like?"

Above him, he thought he could actually feel Izuru blink.

"What do you smell like?" Izuru repeated. "I don't know; you smell like. . .you just smell like _you._"

"Describe it ta me," Gin ordered, coiling himself more tightly around the younger boy's sitting frame.

A beat passed, perhaps two, and then Gin felt Izuru shift and bend, until he could feel the boy's warm, exploratory breath nearish his throat. He giggled.

"Tickles," he said, and felt the hot exhalation of the younger's amused chuckle.

"You smell like. . ." Another breath. The tiny hairs at the nape of Gin's neck pricked up at the sensation, and he clenched his jaw to stave off the shiver that threatened to judder its way down his spine. ". . .like the air right before it snows, kind of cool and. . .metallic, like. . ."

"Blood?" Gin offered.

Izuru laughed. "No, not like blood, like. . .like glass. Like when you're standing really close to a window, and it's winter, and even though you're inside and warm and you can taste the tea you've been drinking, you can still sense the air outside, how biting it would be if you were out in it, and you feel so lucky to be where you are instead."

"I smell lucky?"

"No. . .you smell like _I'm_ lucky -- to be here, on this side of the window, with you."

Gin twisted around so that he was lying on his back with his head in Izuru's lap. He looked up at his boyfriend seriously, admonishingly.

"So _corny,_ Izuru-chan!"

A bashful smile. That blush.

Izuru's eyes fell. He shrugged. "It's Christmas," he said.

His first, Gin remembered, without his parents. By circumstances both accidental and deliberate, his first grown-up Christmas -- a clumsy attempt to braid together the more mature, romantic aspects of the holiday out of the bedraggled ribbons that remained of his childhood celebrations. Gin struggled to meet him halfway, his own holiday experiences having worked in the reverse -- "play" before toys, and the Christmas cake icing always salted by the skin of Sousuke's feeding fingers, while the others slept and dreamt of the lesser things their Santa-san would leave them underneath the tree.

"That it is," Gin agreed, and resolved to pop a piece of cake into the boy's mouth before the evening closed.

* * *

Izuru's acute sense of his own stupidity sagged with relief at the knock on the door.

Gin sat up as it opened and their guardian's face poked into the room.

"Dinner's in ten, you two," Aizen informed them. "And Gin -- a word?"

"Jus' the one?"

"Gin."

"All right, all right. . ." Sluggishly, Gin rose and slouched out into the hall. Aizen shut the door behind him.

Left alone, Izuru covered his face with his hands. He was such an idiot. _Glass?_ Gin smelled like _this side of a window?_ But he'd felt he had to compensate somehow for his reluctance, had to prove that his prudishness was in no way platonically derived.

_Doesn't it hurt?_ Moron. Of _course_ Gin would expect their relationship to progress towards "that kind o'scandalous vulgarity." Of course other things, though they so far remained untried stepping stones spacing Nowhere and All the Way, would one day cease to be enough -- and Izuru had no idea how to calculate the speed at which that day was approaching. How fast did Gin expect things to move between them? How fast were they _supposed _to go? Was there a formula for it, a set of rules to which he had never been privy, having never traded such secrets hidden in banter and ribbing between close male friends? Were there different timelines for boys with girls and boys with boys (and girls with girls, for that matter)?

Izuru wondered if it would be worth the humiliation to ask someone about it. Definitely not Renji. Yumichika, maybe? He seemed to be experienced enough with things of this sort. . .

"So juvenile. . ." Izuru muttered, disgusted with himself. "Grow up already, why can't you just _grow up. . ._"

He sighed and allowed his body to slump forward so that his fingertips brushed against the floor. His hand grazed something hard peeking out from underneath Gin's bed and, curious, he slid the thing out fully to see what it was.

**Elements of Applied Bifurcation Theory**

He could see his reflection between the letters in the glossy cover of the thick, heavy textbook he didn't recognize as being part of the curriculum at the Academy. Gin was year twelve, which meant that, like Renji, he took both calculus and physics, but Izuru had never seen Renji with a book like this, and wasn't even certain which mathematical discipline it might belong to, if either.

He flipped through its pages, baffled by the terminology -- degenerate numbers, predator-prey systems, universal deformation and multiple shootings -- and even more confused by the familiar penmanship of the handwritten equations and graphs that crowded almost every page's margins.

Izuru knew Gin was a good deal smarter than he made himself out to be, but _this. . ._this was well beyond Academy-level work, this was. . .for a seventeen-year-old, this was _incredible. . ._

. . .and it begged the question: exactly how far, in what ways and for whom was Gin dumbing himself down?

For clever but procrastinatory Rangiku? Would Gin feel guilty leaving his best friend in his academic dust?

For Izuru? No, this had begun long before his time at Pure Souls. . .but that didn't mean his presence didn't give Gin further reason to perpetuate the stereotype of the dopey yokel from Kansai.

"What?!"

Izuru's head snapped up guiltily at the sudden volume of Gin's muffled voice through the door, and he quickly closed the book and returned it to its spot under the bed.

"Why? I only gotta see 'im every six months; it's only been three!"

"Gin, please, no whining--"

"I ain't whinin'! I just don't see why I gotta--"

"You know very well why you must."

"Yeah. I know." Something in the silver-haired boy's tone sounded at once both bitter and smug. His voice lowered, and Izuru had to strain to catch what few words he could -- ". . .see that puffed-up pink. . ." and "Gin. . .disrespect is uncalled for. Ushouda-sensei. . .to help you, as have I--"

"Ta help me, right. . ." Sarcastic and scornful.

". . .be antagonistic, Gin. . ." Gently reproachful. ". . .would hate to see. . .again require medication--"

"No. No fuckin' way." _Venomous._

Izuru's eyes widened. He'd never heard Gin swear before, least of all in front of or _at_ Aizen; but neither had he ever witnessed Aizen allow such discourtesy to roll off his back, and yet. . .

"I dearly hope not. The fifth, Gin. Don't forget."

"Me? Forget? Never!" Playful again, as if some internal switch had been flipped, or a circuit run (or shorted out?) -- but Aizen's response was lost in the sudden scream that resounded from down the hall.

"AAAAAAHH!! IBA-SAN, STOP! SOUSUKE-SA--"

Rikichi's voice was cut short and replaced by the sound of water rushing through the pipes in the walls as, Izuru correctly inferred, Iba finally took his revenge upon the younger boy's festival flatulence.

"Tetsuzaemon, that is _not_ what I had in mind when I told you to wash up for dinner!" Aizen's voice retreated towards the bathroom as Gin's grew louder at the opening of the door.

"Yo, Iba-han! Give 'im one for me too, ne?"

"Is everything all right?" Izuru asked as he heard one of the toilets flush a second time.

The fox-faced boy didn't immediately reply, but first kissed him firmly, almost bruisingly hard, pushing him halfway back onto the mattress before lithely leaping into a sitting position beside him.

"Perfect," Gin smiled. "Hate ta say it, but the kid had it comin'."

"I meant with Aizen-san. You. . .you sounded a little upset."

Gin cocked his head at him curiously. "You been droppin' eaves, Izuru-chan?"

"No! I just. . .overheard. Not a lot! Well, not _everything,_ but. . .who's Ushouda-sensei?"

"Eh. . ." Gin sighed and fell loosely back against his pillow. "A duck."

"A duck?"

He opened and shut his fingers, miming speech. "Quack quack quack."

"A doctor."

"Little bit."

"Little. . .a shrink. Your psychiatrist."

"Saa, Izuru-chan's too clever with words!"

"Why do you have to see him?"

"'cause o'you."

"Me?"

Gin lurched up into a sitting position, grabbed Izuru by the shoulders and shook him violently. "Ta make sure you're not makin' me crazy!"

He stopped, laughing at his boyfriend's alarm-widened eyes. "Just playin'," he said. "It's nothin', just a check-up. Isane-chan'll prob'ly hafta go, too; think she's 'bout due for her six-month overhaul."

"Kotetsu-san? But she's so. . ."

"Comparatively sane?"

Izuru pursed his lips. "I was going to say _sweet._"

"Maa, you don' think I'm sweet, Izuru-chan? I'm hurt! Kiss it better."

Izuru did.

". . .so do I?" he said after a minute, stretching out next to Gin and making a pillow of one bony shoulder.

"Do you what?"

"Make you crazy."

Gin laughed. "What a question. If ya do, then how could you trust my answer? An' anyway, ain't that what you're supposed ta do? Like in all them songs -- _you drive me crazy_ an' _I'm crazy for you. . ._"

"Gin, please. I'm serious." _Because if you're not crazy,_ he silently added, _then why would you ever want someone like me?_

Someone so comparatively _deficient,_ someone so far less advanced in apparently _every_ way. . .

Izuru's head bounced lightly with his boyfriend's shrug.

"I dunno, Izuru-chan. Maybe you keep me sane."

* * *

'Twas the night before Christmas.

Creatures stirred.

Cold wood against the soles of his bare feet, cold wood pressing against his fingers and palm. Cold wood encircling the shell of his ear, and cold sounds filtering through it from the room beyond.

Soft gasps. Muted whimpers. All for the little ones, Christmas joys.

"Sou. . .Sousuke-san. . ."

"Shhh. . ."

The beds of Gin's nails turned white as his fingertips dug into the door, the opaque door.

_You can still sense the air outside, how biting it would be if you were out in it. . ._

And the boy could smell it on him. The frigidity. The desertion.

No -- the _defection._

Gin pushed off from the door and made his way, mouse-quiet, to the window at the end of the hall. He put his hand to the glass, the frost-encrusted, translucent glass, beyond which lay not only a room, but a world -- an entire Winter Wonderland at his disposal.

_. . .and you feel so lucky to be where you are instead. . .to be here, on this side of the window, with you. . ._

Gin watched the glass fog up in a diffusing outline of his hand as it pulled at the deeply hidden heat of his flesh, proving that it still existed -- that it was dormant, but not yet extinct.

He wondered what volcanoes dreamt of, if they made their own silver-backed looking-glass worlds out of superheated sand with the same hellfire that burnt all wood that was not petrified to fucking cinders.

* * *

_We're in the building where they make us grow  
And I'm frightened by __**the liquid engineers  
**Like you_

_My Mallory Heart is sure to fail  
__I could crawl around the floor just like I'm real  
Like you_

_The sound of metal, I want to be you__  
I should learn to be a man  
Like you_

_Plug me in and turn me on  
Oh, everything is moving. . ._ -- Gary Numan, "Metal"

* * *

**A/N:** _The NIN version of this song is bomb._

_I've also come to the conclusion that my characters do not live in Japan, but in Ameripan. Possibly Nipponica._

_Nipponica. I kind of like that, actually._

_The Bible bits Gin rattles off each contain a verse on children inheriting the sins of their parents in some way, shape or form. If anything really doesn't make sense (like, really really, & it's not just me being artistically obscure & vague), I blame my headcold. Ugh._

_Re: Hi -- Why y'all gotta waste Special K's flava? Dayamn. DX_

_I'm 95 percent sure I got to everyone this time, review-reply-wise. If I somehow missed you. . .*bows in penitence* I am sorry for both my suck & my fail. :\_

_Thank you for reading. I'd put a charming little tilde there, but for some reason doesn't like that particular piece of typography. :P Chapter thirteen will stay with the boys, & I've got some quite fun stuff planned for them. . . ;D  
_


	13. On the First Go Round

**XIII. On the First Go-Round**

* * *

"Aa! Fuck yeah!" The tail of Renji's braided hair cracked against his back like a whip as he pogoed in front of the bathroom mirror. "Tonight is gonna be _epic._"

"Man," sulked Rikichi from his perch atop the counter, jealously watching his idol preen. "Fuckin' Sousuke-san. I still don't see why I can't go."

"Sorry, squirt, but them's the brakes of bein' twelve."

"So? Hana-kun's only a year younger than Izuru-san, and he can't go, either!"

"But I wasn't invited," Hanatarou pointed out, sliding down the wall to sit on the tiled floor and rest his skinny forearms on his knees. "Even if I am fourteen, I'm still only in year ten, and Ayasegawa-san has only ever invited upperclassmen since he became one."

Renji shrugged as he adjusted the angle of his graffiti-print ball cap. "He wouldn't be Yumi if he wasn't an elitist bitch. Breath check--" He huffed into Rikichi's face. The younger boy recoiled and threw his hands up in defense.

"Augh! Mints! Bring mints!"

"Really?" Renji frowned. "I brushed right after dinner. . ."

"A. . .Abarai-san?" Hana ventured timidly. "What exactly _did_ you brush?"

"My teeth. Duh."

"_Just_ your teeth?"

Renji's eyebrows lifted quizzically. "Uh. . .and my hair?"

"The tongue!" Rikichi exclaimed. "You're supposed to brush your tongue! And the roof of your mouth, too."

Had he lived in an anime, Renji would have sweatdropped, and possibly purpled. "Wha. . .really?!"

"Yes, really, doofus! Jeez. Are you _sure_ your IQ's up to par for this place? Haven't you ever been to a dentist?"

"Oi!" the redhead barked, squirting a line of toothpaste onto his brush. "If you're gonna turn traitor on me I'll have no choice but to join forces with Iba-san." He looked pointedly at the row of toilet stalls.

Rikichi's eyes widened. "You wouldn't!"

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," warned Renji around a mouthful of sky blue foam. "Learn it well, young grasshopper."

Rikichi jutted out his chin defiantly. "I'm no traitor," he muttered. "Unlike _some_ people who go to _excluuusive _New Year's Eve parties and leave their kid brothers at home to choke to death on conbini osechi. . ."

Renji spat, rinsed, gargled, and spat again. "Eh, Sousuke's certified in the Heimlich maneuver. I'm sure you'll live to whine another day. How 'bout now?" Rikichi received a second puff to the face.

"Better. Jackass."

"Thanks, buttmunch. And I'll make it up to you, okay? I promise."

Rikichi looked hopeful. "Will you give Iba-san a swirly?"

"Hell, depending on how drunk Iba-san gets tonight, he may end up giving himself a swirly."

"Huh?"

"See, _that's_ why you can't go. I'll see ya tomorrow, squirt. Watch his back for me, eh, Yamada? Just swat it a few times if it looks like he's turnin' blue."

"H-hai, Abarai-san," Hanatarou smiled wanly. "I hope you have a good time. Say hi to Rukia-san for me."

Renji saluted as he left the bathroom and made for his and Izuru's room, where the blond was buckling his studded belt a couple of loops left-of-center.

"Hey, you ready?"

Izuru nodded. "Aa, just let me get my jacket. . ."

"Cool. I'll meet you downstairs."

The older boy ducked out again, and Izuru pulled the new SoftBank Hawks jacket Rangiku had gotten him for Christmas out of his side of the closet. Zabimaru stirred in his aquarium at the sudden change in light, and the boy bent to regard the pale python with far less hesitation than was his habit.

"You're not so scary," he admitted quietly, his small smile reflecting along the inner curves of the snake's blood-red eyes. "In fact, you're kind of cute. . ."

"Maa, cut it out, Izuru-chan. You're gonna make me blush."

Izuru smiled and turned to regard his boyfriend -- then promptly burst out laughing. "What are you _wearing?_"

"What?" Gin glanced down at his ensemble -- bright blue slacks and a striped gray V-neck sweater over a yellow button-down shirt. "I like it."

"You look like a partly cloudy weather forecast."

"Really? I like ta think I'm mostly sunny. . ."

Izuru only shook his head, and the two made their way down to the genkan, where Rangiku impatiently shoved their shoes into their hands.

"Come on come on come on," she hurried them along. "Time is liquor!" She poked her head around the corner of the TV room. "Sousuke! Everyone's ready, come on, let's go! It's like nine-thirty already!"

Aizen sighed as he extracted himself from the couch and stepped around the puppy-pile of Rin, Momo and Kiyone on the floor, who were raptly watching a band perform on a New Year's Eve countdown special.

"Isane, you're in charge until I get back," he told the elder Kotetsu curled up at the other end of the sofa (who was, by her own admission, "not a party person"). She nodded, and prodded her little sister with her foot.

"Hear that?"

Without tearing her eyes away from the screen, Kiyone stuck out her tongue.

"I shouldn't be longer than half an hour," said Aizen as he leisurely switched slippers for loafers and pulled on his coat. "Try not to burn the house down."

"_I'll_ burn the house down," warned Rangiku, "if it'll light a fire under your--"

Aizen's glasses flashed.

". . ._feet,_" she finished lamely, throwing his brown-checked scarf in the general vicinity of his neck.

* * *

As Pure Souls was itself located within the ritzier district of Rukongai, the drive to Yumichika's house was brief. Aizen eased the van to a stop in front of a tall brick wall with. . .Izuru's eyes widened -- were those _turrets_ peeking out over the top of it?

Iba reached for the door handle.

"Stop," said Aizen, hitting the automatic locks.

Five bodies froze.

"Party protocol. Rangiku?"

"Don't die from alcohol poisoning," the buxom girl boredly recited.

"Good. Tetsuzaemon?"

"Don't leave the party under any circumstances."

"Barring a house fire or medical emergency, yes. Renji?"

"If we have to come home tonight, don't get a ride; call you."

"For _any_ reason and at _any_ time," Aizen stressed. "I mean it. I don't want any of you kids on the road tonight without a sober adult present -- present and _conscious_ and _driving._ Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Hai, Taichou!"

"Clear as glass," said Gin, and squeezed Izuru's hand.

Aizen unlocked the doors. "Play safe, children."

They piled out of the van and passed through a set of open, ornate iron gates that led to a long driveway, at the end of which was situated what could only be described as Château Yumi.

"Whoa," Izuru muttered under his breath, pausing to take in the enormous gray-and-brown stone house: its hipped roofs and flared eaves, its pointed dormers, the castle-like arch of its massive front doors and multi-paned windows and, yes, its turrets. And he had thought the Pure Souls home was impressive -- but where his current place of residence was classically efficient, obviously well-moneyed but modest in deference to its inhabitants of humble origin, Yumichika's home was unabashedly extravagant, kept just this side of gauche by its builders having obviously intended to display their wealth but not lacking the genuine refinement to know how to properly go about doing so.

And it _twinkled._ Christmas lights, either remnants of the recently passed holiday or put up specifically for the party, were strung from the rooftop to the glittering grounds like spiderwebs, or the anchoring ropes of a circus tent. A fountain -- off, presumably owing to the weather (Gin had not received his White Christmas, although the chill in the air had made good on its promise three days later), but illuminated with pink and gold lights -- dictated the roundabout curve of the drive, which was congested with cars, some looking as though they had cost a salaryman's yearly income, others whose appearances suggested they might have been traded for lunch at Maku, but all familiar fixtures in the Seireitei Academy student parking lot.

As they neared the house, Izuru saw that someone had made an anatomically-correct snow angel in the fresh powder between the pavement and the rose bushes -- he didn't even want to guess at how -- and that the windows were vibrating softly with the drum-and-bass lines of the music that could be heard all the way from the street. The sound waves nearly blew him back like a sudden gust of wind when Rangiku opened one of the huge doors and the group filed inside.

The others seemed to know their way around, and Izuru hooked a finger into the backmost belt loop of Gin's pants as the group forged a winding path through the bobbing, bouncing, and in some cases staggering bodies that crowded Yumichika's enormous. . .Izuru didn't know whether to call it a foyer or a reception hall.

In the northeast corner of the room, a small stage had been erected, flanked on either side by amps the size of refrigerators. The Vizored were fronted by a tall, lanky young man with a short blond bob and big front teeth, plaid pants and a white-on-black polka-dotted button-down. He threw himself around the stage with the reckless energy of a born ham (or possibly an epileptic on PCP), occasionally slinging an arm around or stroking the face of one of the guitarists -- the lead a long-haired fop in a poet shirt, and the rhythm a topless boy somewhere in his early twenties with silver devilock and a 69 tattooed low on his chest, whom Shuuhei, perched on one of the amps with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was watching with open admiration.

A tiny blond twister of pure snaggletoothed fury was pounding away on the drums, while the keyboards were manned (or more accurately, womanned) by a bespectacled girl dressed in sailor fuku. A boy with a star-shaped afro plucked expertly on bass, and none in the crowd were so excited as a green-haired groupie glued to the front of the stage, throwing herself against its frame as she screamed along to every word in the lyrics, if they could really be called lyrics -- the singer had a thick Kansai accent even more extreme than Gin's that slurred his words together into a single, semi-melodic linguistic smear.

All this Izuru was forced to take in quickly, as Gin seemed to ignore the band altogether in favor of following his Ran-chan into an antechamber directly to the left of the grand staircase.

"If it isn't the Lost Boys!" Yumichika received them from his place at the head of a table that could have easily seated twenty, as he shuffled the next hand of a poker game. "--And Girl," he added. "Welcome, as ever, to my humble abode."

Rangiku leaned over the back of his chair to greet him with a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"Darling!" she crooned. "You look _fabulous!_"

Fabulous. Yes, thought Izuru, that was definitely the word.

Yumi sparkled, literally. Izuru couldn't even begin to guess at the cost of his kimono, all peacock blue silk and metallic embroidery the thread for which might have been spun from real gold. Glitter fell from his person like butterfly dust as he dealt the cards. A red-and-yellow feather boa was draped around his neck, and his eyes, too, fluttered with matching false lashes.

"Che, don't encourage 'im," grumbled Ikkaku from the next seat over as he gnawed irritably on a toothpick. "He's won three hands already; if his head gets any bigger it's libel ta pop like a giant zit."

"Oh Ikkaku. Your analogies always have my aesthetic benefit in mind," Yumichika sighed, then turned to address the other players -- popular eleventh-year Ogidou Harunobu, and two extremely large boys Izuru recognized as the Ikkanzaka brothers, both prominent members of Seireitei's Sumo Club. "All right, gentlemen, standard house rules still apply: five-card draw, threes wild, and if you weigh less than ninety kilos, one item of clothing removed for every straight you play. . ."

Adjacent to the table was a long sideboard crammed with silver platters of rainbow-colored space cakes, small cups of agar-agar like jewels on ice, dozens of pizzas, and the contents of what looked to be an entire liquor store, organized according to color from sparkling clear to candy-bright to darkest brown, with a fat silver keg the centerpiece of the cocktail spread.

Iba went straight for the beer, while Renji scrutinized the scotch selection and Rangiku immediately grabbed three plastic cups and began picking out multiple bottles seemingly at random.

"What do you drink, Kira-chan?" she asked Izuru, who stared, daunted, at the rows upon rows of spirits.

". . .I have no idea."

Rangiku gasped and looked at Gin with wide, astonished eyes. "Gin-chan, you found yourself a virgin?!"

A tinge of lewd pride wormed its way into Gin's smile.

"I, I've had whiskey," Izuru protested weakly, reddening.

"Mou, that's not a drink, that's paint thinner. Don't worry, though -- we'll get your cherry properly popped in no time!"

"But if you're gonna do shots, do 'em first," advised Renji, pushing a small cup of orange jelly into Izuru's hand. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker; but liquor before beer, never fear." He sucked back his own agar shot with a loud slurping noise, then smacked his lips together in satisfaction. "Lime with tequila," he said. "Mini-margarita. The red and yellow ones have rum -- strawberry daquiris and piña coladas -- and the orange ones are vodka, like screwdrivers."

Izuru looked down at his "screwdriver." It wobbled in time with the nervous trembling of his hand.

The plastic edge of a second orange shot clacked against his own.

"Bottom's up," Gin grinned, then tilted his head back and allowed the liquor-laced jelly to slide onto his tongue and down his throat in a gesture that made Izuru want to claim agar-agar as being his favorite food from then on. He downed his own shot quickly, and was pleased to find that the jelly blunted the burn of the alcohol without fully masking its flavor.

"Here you go--" Rangiku switched out his small empty cup for a much larger one, the contents of which were also orange.

"What is it?" Izuru asked.

"For the virgin? A 'sloe, comfortable screw up against the wall,' of course!" She winked, and Gin laughed at Izuru's deep blush. Renji rolled his eyes.

"Don't get him started on that fruity shit."

"Too late," Iba cracked, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand as he pulled up a chair at the poker table. "OW!"

Ikkaku snickered. "Heh. Dumbass."

Iba rubbed at his ear while Yumichika shook the sting out of his hand.

Izuru sipped his drink. ". . .it tastes like juice."

"Give it a few minutes," said Rangiku. "It won't _feel_ like juice. And Gin-chan's got tea, so. . ."

"Gunpowder green?" Izuru asked his boyfriend.

Gin smirked. "Long Island iced. C'mon, Izuru-chan." He knotted his fingers through the younger boy's and led him in the direction of the main room. "Let's go mingle."

* * *

A few miles away, in downtown Rukongai, another party was in full -- if pendulous -- swing.

Retsu sighed as she stirred her watered-down drink with its silly little red plastic straw. The banquet hall of the Senzaikyuu Tower Hotel, annual site of the Seireitei Academy staff New Year's Eve party, was as beautiful and boring as ever.

White, everywhere she looked was white. White table settings bedecked with frosted glassware and bouquets of snowdrops and lilies adorned every table. Delicate, iridescent white foil snowflakes littered said tables' white linen cloths, and a white swan sculpted out of ice protectively guarded and cooled displays of pale conch, squid, young yellowtail and winter flounder sashimi.

White wine. White tea. White steam rising from hot sake, itself clouded white with sediment.

It reminded her of being at a funeral.

Her gaze traveled the room and fell upon the indirect host of the event. Kuchiki Byakuya had spent the majority of the night in his usual fashion, competing with the swan sculpture for the title of Ice King as he politely declined most invitations to dance (although Retsu had managed to coax him into a single movement of a sonata) and engaged in only the most cursory of conversation. One might ask why he had even bothered to attend -- in fact, more than one _had,_ albeit never to his face -- but the nurse knew better than most how the empty shells of dignity and duty had at times become the only props that kept the man standing, and the scar on her hip gave a testimonial twinge to that fact.

There were other, more physical absences as well -- Kurotsuchi Mayuri could very rarely be found at any congregation for which attendance was not mandatory (not that he was missed), and Urahara Kisuke and Shihouin Yoruichi, who could be counted upon to liven any gathering, were for this event traditionally and tragically absent, choosing more often than not to celebrate their adjoining birthdays together in private.

In a similar vein, Retsu knew precisely where and with whom she would rather have been spending her own evening.

An acknowledgment of attraction to an older student was far from unheard of, and even accepted amongst the majority of the Seireitei staff as an unavoidable fact of life. So long as it was not acted upon, it could not be frowned upon.

But cradle-robbing had been the furthest thing from her mind the first time she'd set eyes upon Zaraki Kenpachi, especially as word of his unruly nature had reached her well beforehand. An eighteen-year-old hooligan whose intelligence had somehow slipped under every academic radar owing to his having spent a good portion of his disadvantaged youth in state institutions of far less scholarly inclinations -- even _she_ had had trouble believing that particular Cinderella story.

The idea had been to allow him to complete his final year of secondary schooling at Seireitei with the hope that a nurturing environment and studies catered to his intellect would assist in his rehabilitation.

That it had backfired magnificently had become apparent within his first day there.

Eighteen he may have been, but he'd looked eighteen going on thirty when he was first brought to her infirmary, already scarred down the left side of his harshly-featured face, already possessing the body of a man fully grown -- and then some. He'd measured just over two meters tall, and weighed twice what she did. He could have probably snapped her neck with one hand, and had looked angry enough to do it, too -- not at her, specifically; just. . .angry. At the world, and not in the way that prompted a youth to start combing his hair over one eye and writing mediocre poetry of the No One Understands Me genre. The world understood him perfectly, and hadn't liked what it had seen.

Inexplicably, she had.

At first she'd thought it a superficial infatuation, that after seven years of nursing she was long overdue for her own bout of Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Still, it had surprised her (he usually did, often and rarely ever meaning to) -- what could they possibly have in common beyond the fact that, for a few hours each day (if he ever stayed that long, or showed up to begin with), they happened to occupy the same building?

Nothing, and yet. . .and yet, despite his predatory appearance, he had sat down mutely as requested, so that she could more easily clean and bandage the deep gash on his right temple that had the look of a princess-cut stone. He'd been gruffly respectful and even helpful, holding the square of gauze in place while she'd taped it to his brow and sharp cheekbone, and he was indeed, she discovered, quite smart. His grades would never reflect his test scores, but she was perhaps the only member of the Seireitei faculty who was never given cause to judge a student's capabilities by the amount of measurable paperwork they produced. He did pay attention, whatever his instructors said to the contrary. He paid attention to everything, all the time, in a way few ever truly did.

Academics were accustomed to focusing on only one tiny part of the world -- their chosen field of study -- and generalizing the rest of it in profound-sounding words that were ultimately unremarkable in their observations -- pretty but blurry backgrounds in perspective photographs. Zaraki Kenpachi saw the entire shot in high-contrast intensity. He might never have had his nose buried in a book -- although a visit to his apartment had proven that to be incorrect -- but he could read his surroundings as well as any scholar could a treatise on his favored subject. He was a dealer in its purest, most undiluted form: he liked to know exactly what he was dealing with at all times, from the "merchandise" he sold to the people he encountered to the settings in which those encounters took place. To be able to compute a situation instantly and spontaneously, be it the holes in a person's "bullshit" or the weak points in an opponent's guard when streetfighting -- such abilities were not the signifyers of a lumbering, meat-headed mind. His simplicity was born of clarity, not slowness.

He was a field researcher, a constant strategist; the most physical sort of scientist, and in that respect, she had had the pleasure of personally confirming that he was a _very_ fast learner. . .

"You know. . ." White again consumed her vision and muted her thoughts as the empty seat beside her was pulled out and casually filled (or fallen into, depending on the perceptiveness of one's eyes to inebriation). ". . .there was a time when you smiled like that at me."

Retsu lowered her gaze. "Ukitake-sensei. Are you enjoying the party?"

The biology professor shrugged, his pale suit bunching up at the shoulders. "Not as much as Shun."

They both glanced in the direction of Kyouraku-sensei, who had taken up sentry by the sake table and was currently laying the charm on thick as buttercream to a less-than-receptive Ise Nanao, who in the next moment feigned to trip and "accidentally" spilled her drink down the front of Kyouraku's trousers.

"Well, perhaps a little more than Shun," Ukitake amended, watching his friend flail for a napkin. "I must admit, the company at this end of the room is incomparably better."

She blushed, and wished she could say it was out of flattery, and not guilt.

"But then," he went on, "we were always so good together, weren't we?"

_Oh dear. . ._ "Jyuushirou," she quietly asked, "must you?"

"Must I what? Speak truthfully? Yes. We _were_ good together, weren't we? To be honest, I've never quite understood why you denied me."

"Jyuushirou. . ."

"And I thought," he continued, his smile weakly hopeful, "I thought, seeing as it's the New Year. . .I thought that maybe we could be good together again. A fresh start. A fresh chance."

"Jyuushirou. . .you're drunk."

Another shrug. "Not terribly. Not so much that I don't know what I'm saying, or that I wouldn't want to say it even if I were sober."

"Jyuushirou. . .no. I'm sorry, but no."

Ukitake looked helplessly nonplussed. "But _why?_ Why not?"

"Because--"

"There hasn't been anyone else, has there? Surely that must mean something--"

"Jyuushirou. . ."

"_Stop_ -- stop saying my name like that!"

A few heads turned in their direction at his outburst. Ukitake reddened, and she waited for him to regain his composure before sadly shaking her head.

"That's how I always said it. I'm sorry, Ukitake-sensei, but I can't do this."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both. You're a good man, Ukitake Jyuushirou, but. . ."

". . .but not good enough for you," he finished for her.

"Too good. Too good for me. I'm sorry. Goodnight, Ukitake-sensei." She collected her purse and rose from her seat.

"Retsu--"

She looked between his pleading eyes and the hand that grasped her forearm to keep her from leaving.

Ukitake's mouth opened and shut like a landed fish, but his words became tangled in the net of his tongue.

Reluctantly he retracted the barbs of his fingers from her skin, setting her free, but not, she sensed with rueful certainty as she made her way to the hotel lobby, letting her go.

* * *

Gin's version of "mingling," Izuru learned, did not match that of Izuru's parents, who had taught him to make the rounds of a dinner party swiftly but politely, never tarrying for too long in a single conversation whilst still conveying an infinite patience for each speaker to say his or her piece.

Gin wormed his way in and out of conversations seemingly at random, disregarding all signs as to whether or not they were open to uninvited contributors. With Izuru in tow, he sidled up to couples talking one-on-one, listened in for a moment or two, then offered up his always unasked-for opinion on something that may or may not have had anything to do with the subject matter at hand. He breezed through groups he could have easily gone around, and even grabbed and cornered the occasional wallflower as if each was an old chum, quizzing them on what they thought of the party, whether they were fretting or confident about upcoming exams and how they were preparing for them, and what a _fantastic_ outfit, where was it bought? ---before leaving them in the lurch mid-reply, his interest having flown the coop with as little warning as it had arrived.

It was all, Izuru thought, quite insufferably rude. His parents would have been mortified. He _should_ have been mortified, drowning in guilt-by-association, and perhaps he would have been, if the not-juice Rangiku had supplied him with hadn't been steadily decreasing in volume every time he hid a smirk around the rim of his cup. Then again. . .

He was having _fun,_ and Gin, Gin was so. . .brave, to do the things he did. To be able to walk up to anybody and say. . .well, anything, be it stupid or insightful or just plain _weird,_ and just. . .not care. Izuru didn't lack confidence, per se, but he did have a healthy respect for consequences -- things which were apparently completely foreign concepts to Gin. The fox-faced boy didn't have caution to throw into the wind -- he _was_ the wind, wild and unpredictable. Being with him was like watching a path of destruction from _inside_ the funnel cloud, and Izuru felt all ruby-shod and Technicolor where he'd once been shot in sepia.

Their circuit eventually brought them to the edge of the dance floor. Izuru saw that Shuuhei had abandoned his post on the amp, and the piece of equipment was now serving as a diving board for crowd surfers. It look like fun, Izuru thought, smirking as Renji bobbed past on a current of heads and hands, ruddy-faced and hollering.

"Do you think. . ." The remainder of the question -- did Gin think it would be worth the risk to attempt the jump in tandem, holding hands -- withered unfinished inside Izuru's mouth when he noticed that Gin had gone stock-still, his attention focused firmly elsewhere -- specifically, on the stage.

More specifically, on the Vizored's lithe and charismatic lead singer.

A strange, semi-sick feeling curdled in Izuru's guts, and he downed the last of his drink in an attempt to wash it away.

"What's wrong?" he asked, crunching his empty cup in his hand.

"That guy. . ." said Gin -- shouted, actually, over the music.

The feeling worsened. It. . .bubbled.

"Do you know him?"

The squint of Gin's eyes became somehow more pronounced. "No. Maybe. I dunno. I feel like I seen 'im somewhere before."

"Maybe just around? At Las Noches or something?" Izuru tried to temper the hope in his voice.

"No, it's not that. . ." Gin shook his head, then shrugged. "Eh, it'll come ta me eventually. Let's dance!"

Suddenly, Izuru felt a different sort of sick as he was hauled into the mob.

He didn't dance. Neither did he sing karaoke, wear anything lamé, or otherwise deliberately seek to embarrass himself in public, if he could help it; but above all, he never, ever danced.

Luckily, no one else at the party appeared to, either; the Vizored's sound was too raw for it, their energy too rabidly infectious. Renji was right -- they _were_ good. They sounded the way a stifled scream felt, riling their audience like microwaved molecules until they vibrated, jumped and crashed into one another at forces just this side of bone-breaking. Coupled with a stomach full of the not-juice Rangiku had given him, it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but the _not_ part of the drink ensured that Izuru didn't really care.

Being crushed and nearly concussed by a falling crowd surfer twice his size three songs in helped, too.

Gin dug him out in record time, though, and ushered him to the sidelines of the dance floor, where the silver-haired boy made a fuss of checking the dilation of Izuru's pupils and feeling for any sprouting eggs on his head.

"I'm _fine,_" Izuru insisted, but was inwardly, shamefully pleased at his reclamation of Gin's undivided attention. "He just winded me a bit."

"That asshole," Gin growled, shooting a baleful glare over his shoulder to where the offending surfer was laughing with his beer-blazed buddies over his less than graceful swan dive into the crowd. "Ain't no one allowed ta wind my Izuru-chan but _me._"

Izuru blinked in surprise. That was. . .heart-meltingly protective. And a little worrying, with Gin's recently revealed propensity for fisticuffs fresh in Izuru's mind.

"Hey," he said. Gin ducked away from the hand Izuru lifted to his cheek, but the rapidly building momentum of his agitation seemed to stall. "Hey," Izuru said again, "prove it, then. Show him how it's done."

For a moment, he wondered if Gin had even heard him. . .but then that familiar smile returned, and Izuru relaxed, and inwardly congratulated himself on his diffusing of the situation as Gin readily answered his challenge.

"Che. Get a room," sneered the eldest Oomaeda sibling as he pushed past, knocking them into a potted parlor palm. "No one wants to see that faggy shit."

"Says a guy whose main extracurricular activity involves wearin' diapers an' huggin' on other men," Gin muttered contemptuously under his breath. "He's got a good idea, though. Wait here." He gave Izuru's forearms a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.

Izuru's heart, which had dropped into his stomach at the oversized boy's words, all notions of personal triumph forgotten, yo-yoed back up into his throat. A room?

Of course he'd been alone with Gin in a bedroom before -- quite frequently, in fact, since they'd gotten together -- but being at Pure Souls was something of a barrier to real intimacy in and of itself. There was always the overhanging possibility that they could be walked in on by Iba or Renji or Aizen (or Rangiku, and Rangiku's camera) that prevented them from taking things too far -- or at least, prevented Izuru from taking things too far. That, and fear.

Was he ready for this? It had only been ten days since their first kiss -- since _his_ first kiss.

Maybe he was assuming too much. Just because they would have more privacy in a room at Yumichika's house in no way stipulated that they had to use it to do anything more than they normally did.

. . .did it?

Gin reappeared before Izuru could answer himself, clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and a corkscrew in the other.

"Okay, ready!" he announced, smiling victoriously. "This way, Izuru-chan!"

* * *

Rangiku watched, camera lowered, as Gin grabbed the blond by the hand and led him up the stairs. She pushed down a pang of loneliness at the sight. Jeez, that was fast. . .

She was happy for her best friend -- thrilled, even -- that he had found someone with whom he could be. . .normal. Normal for Gin, anyway. Someone with whom he could not only be himself and adored for it, but also be a little more like other people, too. People who could stand to have the arms of another wrapped romantically around them without panicking and attacking or bursting into tears or -- the absolute worst -- feeling weirdly, wrongly obligated to let them.

If Gin hadn't been gay, she sometimes thought that he would have been that person to her -- and really, he already was, in so many ways. He loved her. He loved everything about her, and showed his appreciation openly, fervently, but never lustily. He took pleasure in her mouth because of the radiance of her smile, as so few were ever directed at him in return for his. He loved her breasts for the simple fact that he had none of his own, and they were warm and soft and fun to play with, the way they jiggled and moved and how comfortable they were beneath his cheek, and how her heartbeat, he said, was like a lullaby. He was contented by them, but never excited.

Her skin was smooth and clear, and he never needed more of it than she was willing to show at any given time. What was between her legs was simply another body part, little different to him than an ankle or a shoulder -- lovely, because it was a part of her, but only because it was part of the whole. He called her beautiful, and over time, she had come to believe that he was right -- that what had happened _to_ her body had not been done _because_ of her body, and that all the disgust that clung to her was exactly that: external, residual. A thing that could be and had been gradually -- not completely, but considerably -- sloughed away like dead skin cells by the gentle buffer of Gin's non-threatening equivocalness.

And Rangiku had always considered it her own wonderful, unique gift that she could see Gin in the same way -- how pure he could be, how basically innocent. To her, Gin's lies had always appeared as a defensive form of honesty, a way of making others' misconceptions of him true. He was so malleable at heart, so much a blank canvas, or a mirror -- a reflection of his own surroundings to whom left was right and right was left and, as such, nothing and everything was wrong. The letters were the same, but they needed to be read backwards in order to be understood. It made sense that, apart from Rangiku herself, wordsmith Kira Izuru had been the only other person to finally decipher the disjointed sentences engraved in Gin's cracked glass.

She was happy that he was happy. She knew that she wasn't losing Gin to Kira, knew that she and her foxlike friend held parts of one another that no one else could ever touch. If she was envious of anyone, it was Gin himself; but that, too, she had long ago learned how to look past. He was smarter than she was, and braver, and she knew both to be consequences of his fractured mind. He simply _couldn't_ see things in a usual way. It was beyond him, or he beyond it, but like a thousand-eyed fly he could no more look through the dark lines that honeycombed his visual field than he could take in the world through a single ocular cell. His courage was the kind born out of necessity from being unable to tell what lurked in the trenches between each broken shard. He'd had to learn to leap through the chaos, over it and past it, in order to avoid being stranded on a berg of uncertainty, loneliness and fear.

She'd heard from Yumichika about Kira's confession -- that Gin had been the one to stop him making a jump of his own. That made two lives now that Rangiku knew of, that Gin had saved: two valorous acts that even now seemed to go completely unnoticed thanks to the diverting angles of Gin's reflective panes that showed an illusory villain where an antihero lay.

And in accordance with fairy tale logic, Gin had indeed gotten the girl, and Rangiku had clung to that archetype like a lifeline. She knew it was a boy that Gin would have preferred to get, but it had been fun nonetheless -- and secretly, she admitted, reassuring -- to pretend sometimes that she wasn't just the sidekick he had picked up along the way.

But even if that was the case, sidekicks were always the ones who got the spin-offs, right? Who were given their own quests and journeys and, eventually, a sidekick of their own. But who could be hers?

Yumichika sprang immediately to mind, but he already belonged to Ikkaku (or, depending on one's point of view, Ikkaku to him, and Rangiku wasn't about to try to compete with any established main characters). Isane could provide a contrasting cowardice, and a bevvy of neuroses never failed to provide comic relief. . .if only those neuroses did not so often lead to genuine tears. No, Isane was too fragile, too much a damsel in her own right; it would be unfair to try to cast her in any other role, unless Rangiku herself, in her transition to heroism, were to become her roommate's knight in shining armor. . .

She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully.

Could. . .could she really be. . ._like that,_ underneath her own defenses?

Rangiku thought she might never, ever be able to be with a man again. . .but did that mean she would never be able to be with _anybody?_

It was too much to think about right now, too serious and heavily-weighted a thought for the amount of liquor in her bloodstream to keep afloat. Rangiku shook her head and backed her way again into the throng of the dance floor, allowing her camera to hang cushioned against her breasts from its strap around her neck as she closed her eyes and raised up her arms and willed the music to stampede her uncertainties into an incomprehensible pulp. Likeminded bodies jostled occasionally against her, but despite her obvious oblivion, no one made an attempt to grab at or grind against her. That had been Gin's doing, too -- for such an offense, it was known that Rangiku would throw a punch, but it could never be guessed what _Gin_ would do if he saw or was informed of it. That she lived with half the kendo team and was on excellent terms with its captain -- or more importantly, its captain's platonically significant other -- didn't hurt, either.

It was funny, in a way, she guessed -- funny how she had ended up finding safety in the company of wolves, how she had gone from bolting from big bads to being the beta female (Yumichika, naturally, held the uncontested crown of alpha bitch) of a fiercely protective family pack.

But here she was -- and ooh, there was Shuuhei with the refill she'd requested! Sweet, helpful, infinitely tolerant Shuuhei. In fact, if it weren't for Yumi. . .but she couldn't in good conscience go after the love interest of a friend, even if she _was_ only seeking a second banana.

_Oh well, _she sighed, and flashed him a smile in return for the drink before dutifully putting some distance between them.

She'd find someone, some day. Someone smart and loyal, and maybe a little unconventionally intimidating (albeit never, of course, to her). Someone good at putting up with ridiculous things (as she would much rather be seen as a Don Quixote than an Edmond Dantès), but who knew when to get serious about the important stuff. Someone with cold hands and a warm heart. Someone like Gin, but. . .less than Gin. Smaller, on the whole.

Someone whose shadow was shorter than her own.

* * *

The first two rooms they tried were already locked and occupied, but--

"Third time's the charm!" Gin grinned, holding open the door for Izuru, who entered the room slowly, like a prisoner approaching the chopping block with a bayonet at his back.

He could see very little of the room at first, apart from a general spacial awareness that it was large and uncluttered; but the curtains that framed its two high windows were drawn, and after a few hard blinks the moonlight they admitted revealed the ivy-patterned iron head- and footboards of a king-sized bed outfitted in some neutral brocade, jutting diagonally out from the southwest corner of the room and flanked by stout twin nightstands. Matching chairs sat at complimenting angles around a round, glass-topped metal table, and along one wall Izuru could make out the dark outline of a long, mirror-backed dresser.

"Pretty swank, ne?" said Gin, closing the door behind him. "Like a fancy hotel or somethin'."

Izuru's ears perked at the sound of the lock tumbling into place. He turned around, and was startled to find the fox-faced boy standing directly behind him -- he hadn't heard his feet on the carpet at all.

Gin cocked his head in amusement as he set bottle and corkscrew down on the dresser.

"Why so jumpy, Izuru-chan? You ain't scared o'the dark, are ya? Want me ta turn on a light--"

"No!" Izuru said quickly, grabbing hold of his boyfriend's arm. The less Gin saw of his face -- of his _anything_ -- right now, the better. "It's okay. I-I like the dark."

Gin's teeth gleamed in the moonlight as his smile widened.

"I like _you,_" he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of Izuru's jeans, tugging him forward for a kiss.

Izuru moaned softly into his boyfriend's mouth as Gin gently ground their hips together. Okay -- this he could do; this he knew well. How often had he and Gin worked one another into a frenzy like this, touching and petting and kissing their mouths sore until they either had to back off or find a change of trousers? Izuru had even gotten almost-kind-of used to feeling and being felt through clothes, and maybe, he thought, maybe just the tiniest bit addicted to the juxtaposition of discomfort and pleasure that it engendered, both physically and mentally: the heat of it, oppressive but sultry; the endorphin rush that followed the accidental jabbing of a pocketed house key into his hip; the strangely _binding_ feeling of seams. . .

Izuru stiffened as Gin suddenly dropped away from him, the silver-haired boy's mouth descending past Izuru's pushed-up shirt to lock upon the blond's concave stomach, kissing a trail down the line of visible muscle there that had more to do with a lack of body fat than any real tone.

"Gin, w-what are you--"

A surge of panic accompanied the rattle of his belt buckle being undone.

"S-stop!" he cried, shifting sharply sideways, half-falling against the wall opposite the bed.

Gin rose swiftly and trapped him in a tight hug that Izuru momentarily struggled against, unable to tell if it was meant to be reassuring or--

_Don't, _his rational mind told him firmly._ Don't even go there. Idiot, it's __**Gin**__; he would __**never**__. . . _

Izuru swallowed with difficulty, his throat compressed against Gin's shoulder, and hesitantly returned the embrace.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I. . .please don't be mad."

"Shhh," Gin softly hissed against his neck, one hand skimming Izuru's back in wide, comforting circles. "I ain't mad." He pulled back to press his brow against the younger boy's, and his other hand lifted to card through Izuru's pale gold hair. "I just wanna make you feel good."

"Y-you do," Izuru assured him. "You do make me feel good."

Gin kissed him softly, closed-mouthed and yet somehow anything but chaste.

"Then trust me."

Izuru shivered so hard he thought his bones might shake free from his joints. What could he say to that? A denial would be a lie, and its implications unthinkable, but. . .

_Grow up. Grow up. You love him and there's nothing scary about this, this is what people __**do**__ when they love each other. __**Grow up**__._

"I-I. . .I trust you."

Gin smiled. His hands resumed their southward journey and came to rest again upon Izuru's studded belt.

"Jus' relax, Izuru-chan," he urged, tugging the strip of leather free from its loops as he sank down to his knees.

* * *

"Keg's dry," Iba informed the poker table as he spun a chair around and lazily straddled it.

"There's another one in the garage," said Ikkaku, not looking up from his cards.

"So go get it," ordered Iba.

"_You_ go get it. It ran out on your turn. Seems ta do that a lot, actually. . ."

"Fuck you, man. I'm a guest; you live here. It's your responsibility to keep the tap flowin'."

A vein throbbed in Ikkaku's forehead. He closed his eyes, laid down his cards and placed his palms flat on the table, then shot up from his chair with enough speed and force to send it toppling over behind him. He grabbed Iba by the collar and dragged him up to face level.

"That's _it!_" he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth to fleck the mustachioed boy's sunglasses. "You an' me, we got some fuckin' shit ta settle!"

"That so?" Iba snarled, swatting Ikkaku's hand away as he sidestepped his own chair and rose up to his full height.

"Yeah, that's fuckin' so!"

"Then I guess that leaves us with only one option."

Ikkaku nodded. "Guess you're right."

His eyes blazed. Iba's might have, behind his sunglasses. Their right hands curled into fists. Tension mounted, each boy's arm corded in anticipation. There was an almost imperceptible shift in the wind of the dining room. Jidanbou apologized. The rest of the table grimaced and waved their hands in front of their faces.

As one, Ikkaku and Iba both threw down, bellowing.

"SAISHO WA GUU! JAN-KEN-PON! AIKO DESHU! AIKO DESHU! AIKO DESHU! AIKO DESHU!---"

"Are they really so in synch that they always tie _every_ time?" Ogidou asked as, time and again, the warring pair simultaneously threw rock, scissors, rock, paper, paper, scissors, rock. . .

"Oh, they could still be going at it well into the New Year," sighed Yumichika, ignoring the spectacle with practiced skill. "Frequent pumping action has built up a great deal of stamina in their right arms. I'm all in."

There was a chorus of groans as the other three players tossed down their cards, folding en mass. Yumi looked stricken.

"You're all giving up so easily?"

"No offense, Ayasegawa-san, but you've already literally taken the shirts off our backs," Ogidou explained (and very petulantly at that, Yumi thought). "We'd just as well be committing seppuku if we didn't surrender now. Speaking for myself, tonight my sense of modesty outweighs my sense of honor."

"Does it? How dull." Resignedly, Yumichika laid down his cards face-up to reveal his winning hand.

Ikkanzaka Jiroubou gaped. "That's _it?_ That's all you had?! You went all in on a pair of _threes?!_"

"It's my lucky number," Yumi shrugged.

"I. . .I think I might weep. . ."

"Don't despair, Kamaitachi-nii-chan," Jidanbou consoled his sibling. "At least we still have our fundoshi?"

"Well, thank heaven for very small favors." Yumi smiled with a unique blend of cattiness and genuine gratitude. He lifted Ogidou's shirt to his nose, breathed deeply and arched one feather-dusted brow. "Commes de Garçons?"

"Anbar," Ogidou confirmed, pink tinging the apples of his cheeks.

"How extraordinary. I wear Champaca."

"Ah. . ."

"I wonder how it would smell on you. The bottle's in my room, if you're. . .equally curious."

Ogidou flustered visibly. "Uh. I, uh. . ." He cleared his throat and moved to cross his legs, remembered his lack of pants and placed his still-socked feet flat on the floor.

"Hold that thought," Yumichika said patiently, and beckoned to somebody over Ogidou's shoulder with an elegant gesture.

"--AIKO DESHU! AIKO DESHU! AIKO DESHU!--"

"A_hem._ Ikka-kun?"

"--AIKO DE-- eh?" The bald boy paused mid-throw. "What is it, Yumichika?"

"You have a visitor." Yumi rested his chin on laced fingers, violet eyes flicking pointedly toward a keenly blushing, black-clad figure hovering on the threshold between the dining room and foyer.

Ikkaku's ears glowed pink as his scowl melted into a look of surprise. "Ne. . .Nemu-san!"

The pretty girl's fingers tightened around the handles of the small purse she clasped. "Madarame-san."

"What are you doing here?" Ikkaku asked. "I thought your old man forbade you from. . .hell, everything. How did you get him to let you come?"

Iba, for the moment forgotten, lit a cigarette and slumped back down into his seat to watch with the others.

Nemu smiled nervously, her eyes scanning the table as if she expected said "old man" to be concealed behind a fan of cards among the poker players. "He doesn't know I'm here," she admitted.

"You snuck out?"

"Not exactly. I. . ." She averted her gaze as if unable to believe her own audacity. "I drugged him."

". . .say what?"

"I did calculate for his metabolism," Nemu hurriedly (and rather needlessly) assured him. "He shouldn't be unconscious longer than twelve hours."

Ikkaku looked as though he could have been felled by a whip crack from Yumi's feather boa.

"You _drugged_ Kurotsuchi-sensei?"

"Yes."

"You drugged _Kurotsuchi_-sensei?"

"Yes. I wanted to see you."

"You drugged Kurotsuchi-sensei. . .for _me?_"

"Does. . .does my lack of filial piety upset you?"

"Fu-- hell no, it doesn't upset me! That's, that's the most kick-ass thing anyone's ever _done_ for me -- I mean," he added quickly, sensing Yumi's eyebrows raise the way an animal senses an impending earthquake, "that anyone's done just to see me."

Suddenly acutely aware of his audience, Ikkaku moved to take the girl by the arm, hesitated, then allowed his hand to hover in the air above the small of her back.

"C'mon, let's. . .d'you want a drink or somethin'?"

"Um. A glass of water, maybe?"

"Uh, sure, I. . .well, there's gotta be some around here somewhere. . ."

Ogidou smiled dopily as he watched the pair walk away. "They look good together, don't you think, Ayasegawa-san?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," Yumi distantly agreed. "Very fetching."

"Ano. . .Ayasegawa-san. . .about that thought you asked me to hold. . ."

"If it becomes too burdensome, do feel free to put it down. Excuse me." Yumichika rose, dropping Ogidou's shirt in its original owner's lap as he sauntered out of the room.

Ogidou frowned after him. "He's kind of flighty, isn't he?"

"No," said Jiroubou, "he's actually very focused. He's just projecting."

Ogidou paid attention to this. Ikkanzaka Jiroubou had placed fourth in their year during the last round of examinations, compared to Ogidou's eighth. "How's that?"

"The person he wants wants somebody else, so he takes out his unacknowledged frustration on somebody _else_ who wants somebody else and tells himself he wants the placeholder and not who he really wants, while wanting to be wanted by everyone."

"He. . .huh?"

"He's a narcissist; he engineers every situation so that whatever the outcome, he cannot lose."

"Tch. He's damned good at it, too," Jidanbou agreed, gathering up his forfeited clothing that Yumi had carelessly left behind.

Iba grunted, snorting double plumes of smoke from his nostrils like an angry bull.

"Iba-san?" the other twelfth-year asked. "You have something to contribute?"

"Aa," said Iba.

They waited.

The mustachioed boy stood and dropped the remainder of his cigarette in one of the multitude of mostly empty cups that littered the table. He made his way over to the sideboard, selected an open but still nearly full bottle of whiskey, tucked it under his arm and told them on his way out,

"Fuckin' keg's still dry."

* * *

Izuru's cheeks burned violently hot as Gin's face became level with his midsection. He fought the desire to turn away, to curl up against the wall and bury his face in his hands in shame. He was barely even aroused anymore, and how impressive would _that_ be, on top of everything else? God, why hadn't he eaten more, or worked out with Renji, or even stuck with baseball all those years ago?

Izuru shut his eyes as Gin's fingers deftly undid the button of his jeans and unzipped his fly slowly, as if savoring the parting of each metal tooth. He held his breath as the coarse fabric was shucked down along his narrow hips and joined an instant later by the smoother cotton of his briefs, and braced himself for the inevitable -- that Gin would laugh, or change his mind and use Izuru's own reluctance as an excuse to stop things before they went any further, or. . .or break up with him altogether.

An invisible weight bore down on Izuru's heart at the idea, and he knew _had_ to see this through now, if Gin would have him -- if only to reassure himself that Gin _would_ still have him. There could be no turning back now, no admitting that he really wasn't ready for this, that it was too much too fast and could they just wait, please, just a little longer? A month -- a week, even? Or--

--o-or. . ._o. . .__**oh**__. . . _

* * *

Gin's smile stretched at Izuru's sudden intake of breath as he massaged the younger boy's hips with firm, rhythmic touches, thumbs pressing in crescent-shaped sweeps near the tops of too-slender thighs. Having felt many times the frailty of Izuru's frame through his clothes, Gin was neither surprised nor bothered by the sharpness of the hipbones he skimmed. In truth, he found them oddly alluring -- transparently obvious as the boy himself could be, but veiled by skin in the same way Gin sometimes -- occasionally -- _rarely_ -- found it difficult to see through him completely. There might have been invisible nicks on Izuru's bones. The quality of his marrow was unknown to Gin.

It was made of lead, if his rigid stance was anything to go by. His muscles were clenched, his hands were white-knuckled fists clutching the fabric of his shirt and shaking, and above him Gin could hear the unmistakable grind of teeth against teeth.

"Relax, Izuru-chan," he repeated, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against Izuru's lower belly, to plant a kiss along the faint trail of soft golden hair that led from Izuru's navel down to the thicker thatch that framed his steadily reawakening arousal. "Jus' relax. . ."

* * *

He couldn't. There was no way. His heart was beating ninety kilometers an hour and with the way Gin was touching him, he could barely _breathe.  
_

_Grow up, __**grow up**__. You want this. You want him -- obviously. Relax. He knows what he's doing, he--_

"_Ah--_!"

_Oh, God, he knows what he's doing. . ._

Gin's head lowered and Izuru's eyes squeezed shut as mind was suddenly barraged by images of the childhood he was fast leaving behind -- images of lollipops and ice cream cones, and the slugs he'd find in his mother's garden that marred the stalks of her red spider lilies with sticky slime trails; of swinging on playgrounds, his whole body pumping to bring himself higher and higher until his feet scraped the clouds; of one hand cupped around a baseball, fingers lightly drumming, gently squeezing before a pitch was thrown.

One of Izuru's hands came to rest atop Gin's head of its own will, muscle memory unconsciously mimicking his thoughts, Gin's actions. This feeling. . .it was so much different than touching himself, so much _stronger_ (too strong?). Gin's mouth was greedy, drawing from reserves of pleasure Izuru hadn't even known he possessed, and he could feel _everything --_ every tastebud on Gin's swirling, acrobatic tongue, and the smooth, hard metal of Gin's piercings like pearls on a bed of flesh gliding over him. He could feel every soft crease in Gin's lips that wrapped themselves so gently but so tightly around him, could feel Gin's warm breath against his stomach every time he drew in close, followed by a delicious pressure when he pulled away, so intense it made Izuru's head spin and his eyes roll back, almost made his knees give out, almost _hurt_ -- but oh, _oh,_ it didn't, it. . .it felt. . .h-he. . .

"Gin. . ."

* * *

His name in the shape of a gasp.

Intoxicating, that sound. Intoxicating to again feel insistent fingers tangled in and now tugging at his hair by the roots, to feel the throb of desire upon his tongue like a Eucharistic rite. Izuru's muscles were tensing beneath Gin's hands like the springs in a windup toy, the blond's tautening tendons pulling his body up like puppet strings until he was balanced on the balls of his feet, toes curling, back bowing like a scythe.

Gin tightened his grip on Izuru's hips and redoubled his efforts, sucked the boy hard and fast and deep and was rewarded with a startled groan and the dull sound of Izuru's head bumping back against the wall as the blond arched forward into Gin's warm, wet mouth.

"H-hah. . ._ah!_"

Izuru's hand spasmed against Gin's scalp, each finger tugging back the trigger of an invisible gun.

_An' shootin' me in the head._

Even if he hadn't been concentrating on working his throat, Gin wasn't sure if he would have laughed at his own joke, in part because he couldn't really tell whether or not it was one.

Supposed to wait, he was supposed to wait, but. . .this boy, _this boy. . ._

_Izuru. . ._

Izuru, his half-weapon, half-plaything, like a plastic pistol he could lift to his temple for a practice shot.

Izuru who'd redirected Gin's aim. Izuru who would take a bullet for him, whether he meant to or not.

_IzuruIzuruIzuruIzuruIzuru. . ._

* * *

Cut from the wires of his lust, Izuru sagged, panting heavily, to his knees in front of Gin, who caught his face in unusually warm hands and kissed him deeply before he could get his breath back. He could taste himself on Gin's tongue, tart and strange, and instinctively pulled away.

Gin's thumbs traced half-circles on Izuru's overheated cheeks. The fox-faced boy's eyes were open, radiating confusion.

"Izuru," he said, omitting the affectionate honorific as if saying the name for the first time, "Izuru. . ."

Izuru covered one of Gin's hands with his own. "Gin, that was. . .I. . ."

"Izuru, I want you inside o'me."

Izuru's brow furrowed. "You. . .what?"

Mutely, Gin reached behind himself and peeled off his shirt and sweater in one go, but did not discard them. Instead he left them hanging at his wrists, balled up in his hands -- uncertain, Izuru realized.

Afraid.

But the hesitation was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, and as Gin tossed his clothes carelessly to the side Izuru wondered if it had only been a figment of his imagination.

Gin's torso was lean and with the natural tone of a fast metabolism. His skin, ordinarily so pale that his veins could occasionally be seen lancing like blue lightning just beneath the surface, was lent a weirdly golden quality in the murky light of the room, as if he was livened by the darkness rather than diminished by it -- like the moon itself, brighter in its reflection of the sun than when in eclipse of it.

He was beautiful, Izuru thought, like something that belonged to dreams, something made to be seen only by starlight, like a wild youth who had just figured out how to navigate his way back from Neverland.

"I want you," Gin said again. There was something urgent in his voice, something desperate in the way he wrapped himself around Izuru's body (all of him warm now, and some of him hot), as if he were attempting to scale the trunk of a tree. "Don't say no. Don't say no."

Izuru could feel the hard knot of Gin's need pressing imperatively into his hip through the older boy's trousers. His heart rushed, still overwhelmed in afterglow.

But that had been. . ._God,_ just. . .even if he hadn't been ready -- but then, how could he _ever_ have been ready for that? Izuru knew better than most that there was no "being ready" for anything in this world, that there was no magical or mathematical amount of preparation that could blunt the punches life -- or death -- wanted to throw at a person. Things happened despite fear. Accidents happened despite precautions, and speed limits in no way negated terminal velocity. He loved Gin, and Gin was _here_ and _now_ and _happening,_ and wasn't that what had caused Izuru to stumble in his direction to begin with? Wasn't it Gin's pulling the rug out from under his feet that had made him fall head over heels for the garnet-eyed boy in the first place?

_Grow up._

Yes. Yes, he was.

And in doing so, he would give Gin good reason not to fly back to that second star to the right, come morning.

Izuru closed his eyes and murmured his consent into the older boy's shoulder, "O-okay. . ."

Gin shuddered, in relief or anticipation, Izuru couldn't tell. He felt the skin of Gin's back prickle with gooseflesh beneath his hands, and assented again, more firmly this time,

"Okay."

* * *

_Thoughts__  
Is it right to feel this way?__  
Will I be happy one day?  
__Is my posture okay?  
Am I straight or gay?_

_Let your body decide where you want to go  
High or low, fast or slow_

_I don't know if I'm ready__  
But everything must be unsteady  
**On the first go-round**__. . ._ -- The Ark, "Let Your Body Decide"

* * *

**A/N**: _What's up, people?! Remember me? I'd apologize again for the wait, but honestly I'm just happy to have gotten this posted before Izuru's birthday. Fourteen's half-ish done already, too. I'm trying. . .& __thank you as ever for reading, reviewing, alerting, favoriting; everything._

_Also, hey, did you see what I did thar? Because Izuru's a PITCHER, get it? Hur hur. OTL _

_I've. . .I've been holding that in for a very, very long time. *nerds*_

_But for srs, bottom!Gin is so rarely explored in Gin/Kira fic, even when Aizen/Gin is present in the same story. I like to let everyone switch off, personally, but when Gin is portrayed first & foremost as being Aizen's uke, I don't see any reason for him to abandon his prostate when he gets together with Kira solely at the behest of a two-dimensional & largely erroneous societal platitude that the manipulator must always be the penetrator. (I feel like I should put on my glasses now just so I can haughtily push them further up the bridge of my nose. XP)_

_Moar fanart from __**voldie-riddle**__ is up at her Deviantart page! Blushing & bathing & butt sex, oh my! ;DDD Go look nowww. Hell, look at everything in her gallery, & then join me in envying her mega-versatile talent. Wow. _ I'll just, uh, be over here with my elbow macaroni & half-eaten paste. . ._


	14. Burnt Silver Brushed Lavender Offspring

**XIV. Burnt Silver Brushed Lavender Offspring**

* * *

"And _what_ does she see in him, anyway? He's. . .he's lazy, and. . .and _scruffy,_ ew! And a lech. My last class with him, my last class, he compared feminine. . .fermeninine. . .ferm--" Fong Shaolin's tongue stumbled over the word.

"Fermionic condensates," Rukia supplied.

"_Fermionic condensates,_" the other girl triumphantly enunciated, "to 'dancers doing the horizontal tango,' complete with 'bodily superfluids.' What _teacher_ is supposed to talk like that to their _students,_ anyway? I could get my father to bring a case against him. I could. Sexual harassment en mass. I could."

"I don't think Yoruichi-sama would appreciate that very much."

"She'd get over it. I'd. . .help her."

"Uh-huh," Rukia sighed, cheek slipping downward in boredom off the hand she'd been employing to prop up her head for the past half-hour, during which Shaolin's incessant buzzing had been steadily killing her own. "Eto, Shaolin, exactly how many drinks have you had tonight?"

"Tch!" the other girl hissed through her teeth, waving a blasé hand in the air. "I haven't touched a drop of anything but water! Alcohol hindersh athletic performance, and Yoruichi-sama. . .Yoruichi-sama. . ." Her bottom lip quivered as her eyes brimmed with tears. "She's counting on me! I can't let her down! She's. . .uwaahh, she's just so wonderful!!"

"Ah." Rukia bit her lip, patting Shaolin awkwardly on the back as the other girl slumped forward to bury her face in her hands as she bawled. "Um. . .there, there. . ."

"And you know," a tiny, muffled voice slinked out from the spaces between Shaolin's fingers, "you know what else is wonderful?"

"What's that?"

"Those space cakes. . ."

_Oh hell,_ thought Rukia, realization dawning as her gaze fell upon crumb-flecked paper plates on the low table in front of them in Yumichika's. . .well, she wasn't quite sure what this particular room was called. Nii-sama would know, which was reason enough for Rukia to make every effort not to care.

". . .they're, they're really good. I know I shouldn't, but. . .I'm really hungry. . .could you get me another one?"

"Erm. . .how about a slice of pizza instead? Too much refined sugar will disrupt your energy levels, and Yoruichi-sama wouldn't want you crashing in the middle of training, now, would she?"

Sniffle. "N. . .no. O-okay. Arigatou, Kuchiki. You're. . .you're wonderful, too, a true friend! I love you!"

"Oookay!! Hahaha! Yes!" Rukia laughed nervously as she attempted to extricate herself from Shaolin's sudden glomp of inebriated affection. Between the crying girl's smeared mascara and the almost criminal strength of her wire-thin limbs, it was not unlike being mauled by an anorexic baby panda bear. "Yes, okay, I love you, too -- now it's time for Kuchiki to breathe, heheh. . ._Renji!_"

The redhead halted mid-step as he passed by the sofa, swayed a little, then turned with exaggerated suspicion.

"Help!" Rukia mutely mouthed.

Glassy reddish-brown eyes were slow to take in the scenario: two girls embracing, both fair and dark-haired and just his type, one for whom he'd formerly carried a torch, and the other who blatantly carried one of her own for, if not the most beautiful, then definitely the _hottest_ female faculty member in school. . .

His grin was equal parts ecstatic and perverted.

He shook his head.

_Abarai Renji, you drunken hentai son of a. . ._

"Abarai?" Shaolin asked. "What does _he_ have to do with anything?"

Renji's grin faded as Rukia's grew. Well, if he wanted to play dirty, who was she to stand in his way?

"Renji, unlike me, is _not_ wonderful," she said. "In fact, would you believe that just the other day he was ranting to me about how physical education isn't even a proper scholastic discipline, and that Yoruichi-sama doesn't really deserve to be called Sensei?"

In Rukia's favor, it didn't take the influence of psychoactive baked goods to nudge Shaolin's protectiveness of Shihouin Yoruichi into rabid overkill; but, Rukia figured, if Shaolin foamed at the mouth, she might do so in some very entertaining colors.

"He said _what?_"

Shaolin jerked away from Rukia and whirled like a heat-seeking missile to fix the history T.A. with an incinerating glare worthy of the Japanese flag's rising sun.

"Oh fuck me--" was all Renji chanced to say before bolting.

Shaolin gave chase, and Rukia was hot on both of their heels with an internal cackle worthy of a supervillain -- or at least a ghost-hunting reality TV host. No way in hell was she missing _this_ one. . .

* * *

This boy, _this boy,_ thought Gin, was adorable.

They lay naked together on the bed, kissing with limbs tangled as they had many times before while clothed. Izuru was pressed flush up against him, aroused again but barely moving. His hands hovered fixed and clammy against the middle of Gin's back, and he hadn't dared to look down even once since they had shed their lower garments.

And Gin, Gin couldn't _not_ move, couldn't keep his body still or his hands to himself or his tongue from pushing past stiff but open lips. He couldn't wait.

He _wouldn't_ wait.

He was finished, he was fucking well _finished_ with waiting for doors to open and invitations to be issued. Assassins shouldn't even need to _knock,_ let alone be penciled in at their victim's convenience. This wasn't Sousuke's will -- it was Sousuke's fucking _fault,_ his fault for having conditioned Gin's body to respond so severely to acts of "worship," and it was coming back to bite him in the ass. Gin may have been jumping the gun, but it was _his_ gun to jump, _his_ Izuru, _here_ and _now_ and _happening_. He didn't need to wait, not for Sousuke or anyone else.

_Careful. . .that sounds like a rapist's mentality. . .  
_

No -- no no no, it wasn't, he wasn't. Shut up. Shut up.

_Shhh._

"Izuru," he said, fingertips tripping over the length of the blond's downy-soft and slender arm. "Izuru-chan, you scared?"

"No."

The lie, he thought, was only made sweeter by its obviousness. Gin could taste it on his own tongue.

"Me neither."

Blue eyes flickered back and forth between red, then looked bashfully askance at the frost-framed window. A sentence uncurled like a worm from Izuru's Adam's apple, "I thought. . .I thought it would be different, is all."

_Shut up._

"Different?" Gin echoed against the front of the boy's throat, and wondered how hard he would have to bite down to rip the words back through Izuru's mouth and out of his voice box completely.

"It's just that. . .I guess I sort of assumed _you_ would be the one, you know. . .on top."

Gin's teeth clicked together as his mouth closed just shy of the blond's skin.

He shrugged. "I can be, if ya want."

"No! N-no, it's okay, I can--- I _want_ to do this."

Gin decided against clarifying that what Izuru was thinking was not what he had meant -- that their actual positioning was entirely negotiable, and he would have been more than happy to let the boy relax supine while he did all the grunt work, in a manner of speaking -- but Izuru already sounded too much like he was trying to convince himself, and Gin's grasp of his own certainty was too tenuous to tempt. He could do this. He _wanted_ this, and he could do anything.

He kissed the boy closed-mouthed, then scrambled across the mattress to the bedside table nearest the wall and pulled open its solitary drawer, finding immediately what he was looking for. Ayasegawa-kun really was the most thoughtful host.

Gin could feel Izuru's eyes boring into his back as he squirted a generous amount of something viscous and clear into his palm from a small tube. He rubbed the liquid between his hands to warm it, then nodded at his kouhai.

"C'mere."

* * *

"It looks as though we are equally unlucky tonight, my friend," Shunsui sighed as he slumped into the demoralizingly empty seat next to Jyuushirou's.

The biology professor said nothing, his dark eyes still fixated on the door through which his former love had recently passed.

". . .I just don't understand it," he murmured after a moment. "Things were always perfect between us. Our conversations were never boring, our silences never uncomfortable. We never fought. We never even _bickered._ The sex was incredible. We were _happy._ And then one day, she was just. . .gone, like mist." He made a vague, wispy gesture with his hand. "Her body was there, but her mind, her heart. . .it was like her feelings for me just evaporated overnight. I don't understand it."

Shunsui toyed with the slivers of half-melted ice that crusted the surface of the remains of the nurse's drink, and sighed. They had been through this many times before. The lines were not only scripted, but worn newspaper-thin from frequent handling. Even so, he recited them faithfully:

"It was Retsu-san's decision, Jyuu-chan. It requires only your respect, not your understanding."

"It has neither," Ukitake hissed. "Love is not a decision, it is not a _choice._ And anyway, I don't see you 'respecting' Ise-san's militant refusals of your advances."

"Ouch, Jyuu-chan. Touché, but ouch."

"I won't apologize," said the white-haired man, looking away.

Shunsui's brow lifted. "You _have_ been drinking."

Jyuushirou rolled his eyes. The action seemed to roll his mood along with it. His shoulders slumped. He sighed and rested his elbows on the table, tiredly scrubbing his hands through his hair.

"What didn't I do, Shun?" he asked. "What is it I lack? Why couldn't I keep her?"

"_A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages,_" Shunsui quoted. "Tennessee Williams."

"I didn't think Western authors interested you."

"They don't. Angelina Jolie-san's tattoos, on the other hand. . ."

"Ah. Of course."

"The point being, Jyuu-chan, that a lioness at rest can be called no tamer than one who is actively hunting."

"I wasn't trying to _trap_ her, Shunsui. Marriage is not a trap."

"Speaking as an eternal bachelor, I beg to differ."

"Is that why you only pursue unattainable women?"

"Look who's talking."

"Ouch, Shun. Touché, but ouch."

Kyouraku smirked, but not unsympathetically. "I only mean that they are called 'the bonds of marriage' for a reason. Much like 'the bonds of friendship.'"

"Oh, so now _I_ tie you down as well? The old ball and chain?"

"Now you're just getting kinky."

Jyuushirou snorted. He plucked Retsu's glass from Shunsui's hand and downed the last of the drink that resided within.

"Marriage is not a trap," he asserted again. "It's. . ."

"Domestication."

"A recombining of the cells of split souls," Jyuushirou argued.

"Like a parasitic twin."

"Like an intraspiritual endosymbiosis. A two-way heart transplant."

"But even when such operations are theatrically successful," said Shunsui, laying a hand upon his friend's shoulder, "there is always a risk of rejection. You're making my point for me, Jyuu. Be it blood or ether, when two types are incompatible, even on a microscopic level invisible to the naked eye---"

"Yes, yes, I know," Ukitake waved him off. "I know. But I'm sick of it, Shunsui. The only time my heart beats faster is when I see her, and I'm sick of subsisting on that. . .that _pacemaker._ I'm sick of feeling like a respirator's finally given me one precious puff of oxygen whenever I hear her voice. I'm just. . ." He sighed heavily again and sagged against the back of his chair. "Sick."

"Then perhaps you need to stop waiting for a nurse to heal you, and learn to resuscitate yourself."

"And if I can't?" Jyuushirou posed. "If my spirit proves too weak?"

"Then you have your answer. How could you have possibly hoped to stand by her side with your soul hooked up to a hospital bed? You can't depend on one person alone for the survival of your happiness. When a patient cannot breathe on his own, the prognosis is never a good one. Come now." He clapped his oldest friend hard on the back. "A little optimism, eh? You haven't died without her yet. And besides, you still have me."

"You're _trying_ to make me feel worse, aren't you?"

"It's New Year's Eve and in place of a woman I have a lap full of wine that makes it look as though I've been menstruating. In what context could sitting next to me be detrimental to your self-esteem?"

"Well, now that you've brought it to my attention, you _are_ a little embarrassing to be seen with. . ."

"Ha ha. I'm being serious," Shunsui pouted. "You _do_ still have me, and unfortunately you always will. And when you're old and decrepit and I'm still roguishly handsome but finally lonely, we'll take care of each other."

His friend arched an eyebrow. "Are _you_ proposing to me, Shunsui?"

"Of course not. Why buy the paddy when you are given the rice for free?"

Ukitake smiled. It wasn't a large smile, or a particularly enthusiastic one, but Shunsui was easily satisfied -- for tonight, at least. For the moment.

He cast his gaze across the room to where Ise Nanao was conversing with Stuffed Shirt Kuchiki, and frowned when the man interrupted her to take an incoming call on his cell phone. Really, the rudeness of some people. . .

She'd freshened her wine glass, he noticed. White, this time. Hmm.

Byakuya looked mildly distressed. That was a new expression for him. Of course, when it came to Kuchiki Byakuya, the same could be said of _any_ expression. But he was excusing himself, heading for the promenade outside. . .

Shunsui looked back at Jyuushirou.

"Go," the white-haired man said flatly, waving him away. "But know that you'll be sleeping on the couch tonight."

"My eternal resting place," said Shunsui.

"Your death bed."

"Adjacent to yours, Jyuu-chan. Always."

* * *

_Matsunaka Nobuhiko. . .career batting average .304. . .on-base plus slugging average .957. . .Kokubo Hiro--- oh--- oki. . ._

Izuru breathed deeply, forcing baseball statistics to surface from the white spots that hazed his vision as he pushed slowly forward, balanced on his forearms, knees and thighs. Gin's legs were wrapped around his back, helping to steady him, pulling him closer.

_. . .average .275, on. . .on-base. . ._

Pulling him in.

_. . .on-base h-home runs. . ._

Izuru blinked hard as the top of his thoughts collapsed and the reality of the situation came crashing through.

They were having sex.

They were having sex, and he wasn't a virgin anymore.

He wasn't a virgin anymore because _he_ was _having sex_ with _Gin._

It sounded weird and clinical and unbelievable and amazing, and it was all of those things. The feel of Gin's body around him was all-consuming, like double fists, tight and hot and slick. Izuru could feel Gin's pulse in the narrow length pressed up against his stomach. He could feel the curling of Gin's toes when the older boy's heels rolled into the small of his back, and somewhere in the flood of somesthetic fervor, bafflement tumbled like a bottled message: _this_ was a disdained act?

Of all the awful things people could do, being this way, doing this thing, was considered by so many to be one of the worst? Being gay and in love and showing it in the closest approximation of a conventional standard, when it meant just as much, when it felt just as good (Izuru guessed -- he couldn't fathom the idea that it could feel any _better_). . .of all the things in the world that could be labeled "wrong," this wasn't it, and he was ashamed of himself for ever having been so ignorant as to blindly believe that it was anything other than a natural expression of the best possible emotion two people could feel for each other.

One of Gin's hands left his shoulder to wrap around an iron vine in the headboard, using it for leverage as he shifted, his body adjusting to the intrusion. Izuru's breath caught at the spark of pleasure even that small movement sent crackling along the wire of his spine, and he knew with dizzy certainty that if he hadn't come once already, it would have done him in.

"A-are you okay?" he croaked, concentrating on his concern and the distracting tickle of his forelock, a few strands of which had become stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Gin nodded. "Yeah, I'm. . .go ahead an' move a little. . ."

Izuru pressed his palms flat against the sheets beneath Gin's pillow and rocked his hips gently, experimentally.

"Like this?"

"More," said Gin, and then, ". . .a lil' more. . .don' worry about it fallin' out, we can always put it back in again."

A spasm of nervous laughter canted Izuru's body forward, making them both gasp.

"Good," Gin praised on the end of a sigh. "Now tilt your hips up a lil' bit. . .---Yeah---" His breath quickened. "Like that -- jus' like that -- I'm good, keep goin'. . ."

* * *

The elevator groaned under the weight of decades as it began its ascent to the eleventh floor of Tres Cifras Apartments, one block from the border between Hueco Mundo and northern Rukongai. New graffiti had been added to its dented metal doors, and Retsu read it idly, as one would the back of a cereal box over breakfast. That Gantenbainne Mosqueda was a little bitch overlapped an announcement of Dordonii's status as an okama. Just above the call buttons, Loli loved Menoli (4-ever), and scrawled across the emergency telephone receiver, the contact information of the "infinitely slick" Cirucci Thunderwitch was now readily available to anyone looking "for a good time."

The nurse shifted her coat in her arms and took a small sample tube of mascara out of her purse. She unscrewed the top, painted over the middle four numbers and, for good measure, changed all the ones into sevens.

She didn't attempt to fool herself into believing it a noble act of feminine solidarity. Vandalism was vandalism, be it libelous or charitable, and Unohana Retsu wasn't a saint, even if the majority of her lies could by most be called kindnesses. Nevertheless. . .

She did a great many things "nevertheless." It was, she recognized, her own unquittable habit.

It had certainly been the one at the helm of her actions nearly eight months ago in this very building, when she'd exited this very elevator, walked down the hall, knocked on the door of apartment number 80 and found the purpose of her visit prowling his home with the unlikely innocence of a lion patrolling the inner perimeter of an unlocked cage.

Zaraki Kenpachi was so obvious by nature, and on that day had been so obviously hiding something. He was hardly to first person to see her, think of needles, and cringe away. It would have been remiss of her medical training to discount the possibility of the worst, no matter how loath she was to believe it, and she'd had to ask: was he using again?

At least, she would have asked, had his answer not struck her dumb before she could complete the question.

It really shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did. She'd refreshed her knowledge of drug dependency the the morning of his first day of detox, and while she couldn't have known with any certainty that his body would respond in such a way to his withdrawal, she had been very aware of the potentiality. His opioid receptors, famished from weeks of sobriety, were all but clawing at his pituitary gland for a much-missed rush of morphine (albeit endogenous, and not diacetyl). A riot of testosterone and dopamine in the absence of a prolactin prison guard had fashioned a shank out of his libido with which to brutally assault his common sense. Had any other woman come to his door, he would have reacted no differently.

Nevertheless. . .

She'd hesitated at first. Addicts were advised to abstain from beginning new relationships during their first year of recovery not without cause -- the natural highs of physical intimacy could engender just as potent and unhealthy an emotional attachment as the agents from which they were striving to distance themselves -- but then, she'd reasoned, what of his relationship to Yachiru? Did the same rules apply toward replacing syringes with sex when they were already being replaced by a bunny mobile spinning above a whitewashed crib and a pink hooded bath towel with cat ears sewn onto its cowl?

No, she'd decided. The throne of his devotion was already quite soundly occupied by a princess, with little room left for a queen. She could safely share this with him. She could -- and moreover, she badly wished to. She hadn't planned for it -- not specifically, in any case -- but neither could she deny that she'd wanted Kenpachi to want her, in that state or any other. She'd known very well the way she looked in the dresses she wore to see him. She'd known that the mints she chewed in the elevator on her way up to his apartment held a motive ulterior to the alleviation of a dry throat.

Had she loved him, even then? Yes, she loved very easily; she knew that much about herself. Did she think he loved her, even now?

She didn't know.

She hoped so, but it wouldn't destroy her if he didn't.

She hadn't lied to him that day -- _looking_ for love was a thing she had never had to do. A nurturer by nature, love was simply a part of her makeup. It surrounded her always, in an ebb and flow as effortless as an ocean current, provided one knew how to drift without drowning. Its abundance was without limit, there was no dam tall or broad enough to staunch its feed, and it was a fool's errand to attempt to solidify it without expecting it to freeze.

That had been the trouble with Jyuushirou. Although Retsu believed that his love for her was sincere, she couldn't help but regard it as conditional. She hadn't been able to accept, when he'd presented her with that small velvet box, that it could possibly contain anything so large as eternity. He'd promised to love her forever, and symbolized it with a destructible thing.

She'd never understood the appeal of marriage. It was a dissoluble institution, a legality masquerading as love. Emotions could not be licensed. They did not come with certificates of authenticity, and could not be placed under warranty. The blank line on Yachiru's birth certificate where Kenpachi's name should have been was proof enough of that. Love existed beyond the material. Even when left unspoken, unrequited, unwritten or one-sided, it remained, incurable save for a second stab from the blade that made the wound.

Somewhere in the stitching up of an eighteen-year-old boy, an incision had been unintentionally made in Unohana Retsu's own aquatic heart. She'd initially thought it a shallow cut, one easily bandaged with logic and medical objectivity, securely knitted by time and distance to leave behind the smallest of scars.

She hadn't anticipated that the injury would reopen with the simple answering of a door four years later, but reopen it had; nor that it would be torn irrevocably wider owing to the influence of an infant girl she could consider even less her own than the children with whom she daily dealt.

With whom he also dealt.

That discovery. . .it hadn't gutted her, although it had definitely twisted the knife. She still didn't know which revelation had stunned her more: that he had fallen back into his previous lifestyle -- or that he hadn't. She'd been frightened and furious, but also astounded -- and immeasurably relieved -- when every tox screen she'd subjected him to continued to come back clean. Only two months into his sobriety and he could look at and smell and _handle_ the very substance that had nearly been his undoing without so much as a hungry glance, and he didn't even seem to realize the kind of mental fortitude that took. If it hadn't been illegal and morally repugnant, it would have been admirable. It certainly wasn't normal. _He_ wasn't normal, and if Yachiru grew up to inherit even a fraction of his strength. . .

She was going to be breaking bones right alongside hearts, Retsu thought with a smile. If Kenpachi could learn to see that, to see the best parts of himself reflected in his little girl -- his determination and almost brutal honesty, his intensity, and his capacity for temperance -- then there was no limit to what either of them could become.

And Retsu would do her best to teach him, quietly, secretly. She would do her best to show him that the only way to fight a riptide was to swim parallel to the shore, even if he only came to find that path by following the scent of her bleeding heart in the water.

The doctored elevator doors chimed and opened automatically upon her arrival at the eleventh floor. She made her way down the hall, knocked on the door of apartment number 80, and waited.

It opened a moment later to reveal the purpose of her visit, looking puzzled by her sudden appearance on his doorstep. _Quid pro quo, Zaraki-kun._

"Hey," he said. "What happened to your party?"

She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "My presence was noted."

His eyes traveled the length of her body, taking in the plastic bag of conbini sashimi bentos and cheap champagne hooked around her right wrist, lingering a little longer on the frothy mermaid train of her gown, and the plunging V of its neckline. "In that dress, I believe it."

"And out of this dress?" Retsu asked him.

Kenpachi wordlessly took a step back, his fingers already at the zip when the door closed behind her.

* * *

Gin opened his eyes, a puzzled frown knotting his brow. "Why'd ya stop?"

Izuru licked his lips uncertainly. "I-I just wasn't sure if, if I was doing this right," he admitted. "You're so quiet. Even when we make out, you never. . .or am I. . .am I too loud?"

Quiet? It hadn't occurred to Gin to be anything else. Absolute silence was, after all, Sousuke's second commandment; and before that, well. . .

_Hush now, boy, hush! or I'll give you a reason ta scream--_

Gin muffled the memory with other, louder ones. Fireworks in the form of soft foam spikes sprouted against his mind. An insulating mouth muted an exultant shout that had rattled his thoughts, but never his teeth. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Smile, close your eyes, and shhh. Remember the subjectivity of malice and love. One man's concupiscence is another's court order.

But Gin wasn't playing by Sousuke's rules anymore, and Izuru made noises that were positively _outlandish_ compared to Sousuke's ability to mask the sounds of sex with those of a restless, dream-filled slumber; and while Gin enjoyed them as cues of the blond's susceptibility to his touch, the thought of reciprocating had never even crossed his mind.

Izuru made noises that sounded like sobs, and some like laughter. He could somehow choke and pant at the same time. He moaned and cried out at every fleeting feeling of pleasure that glanced off his skin, as if he could call each one back and beg them to stay.

And who knew? Gin mused. Maybe they would. Maybe they _did,_ but he'd never been given leeway enough to ask and find out for himself.

He shook his head and smiled breathlessly. "Nah, you ain't too loud -- an' trust me, you've been doin' everything right. Don't worry 'bout me, just don't stop -- don't stop again. . ."

His eyes slid shut as Izuru began to move again with new purpose. A shuddering breath escaped him, and he tightened his hold on the younger boy's shoulders.

The sounds he made were loosed consciously at first -- a sigh allowed to end in a soft moan, a gasp given greater volume than it normally would have possessed -- but Gin was intrigued -- almost alarmed -- to find that they were quickly becoming involuntary, as if years of bottled up verbalizations had been uncorked with no way to imbibe them back into silence.

He couldn't stop.

Pleasure piled onto him like sand, each vocal vibration a grain of hallowed ground that buried him alive in rapture, and he didn't want it to ever, ever stop.

* * *

Izuru watched, astonished by the sudden change in his boyfriend's demeanor. He thought at first that Gin was playing up his reactions for Izuru's benefit, but there could be no faking of the flush that crept its way from Gin's pale chest up his neck to his cheeks, or the sweat that beaded on the silver-haired boy's brow and collected on his sternum and above his collar bones.

Emboldened, Izuru shifted his weight, shifted one arm beneath Gin's nape to hold himself up while doing his best to keep the steadily increasing rhythm and favored angle of his hips unchanged. With his newly freed hand he reached between their bodies and was assured by the sharp arching of Gin's back when he grasped the evidence, incontestable and hard, that yes, he was doing this very, very right.

He touched Gin instinctively, with no real finesse, lacking both the experience and presence of mind to do more than stroke and thumb and lightly twist his hand at random intervals that in no way matched the climbing pace of his thrusts, but that didn't seem to matter. Gin was trembling now and breathing hard. His keens turned high and thin. His thighs were clenched almost painfully tight around Izuru's ribs, and his fingers dug hard into Izuru's upper arm and sweat-damp back as if scrabbling for purchase on a snowy slope.

He was going to come, Izuru realized. Gin was going to come and he, Izuru, was the driving force behind it. His skinny body. His raw, unfledged proficiency.

He could see now some of the reasoning behind Gin's turning everything on its head. There could be no vulnerability without shame, and even here, ostensibly at the mercy of another for the fulfillment of a biological necessity, Gin possessed neither. There was only the coalescing urgency of his own desire, morphing selfishness into pride, burning the indignities of sex to immaterial ash. There was nothing scary about this, this was what people _did_ when they loved each other: they made each other feel good, and fear less.

Gin's face contorted, and his muscles locked up. His body bucked and Izuru heard him hoarsely shout, felt Gin throb in his hand as something hot and wet spattered against Izuru's own stomach and chest.

Izuru stilled and tucked his chin over the crook of Gin's neck, holding the older boy close until the shakes subsided and Gin collapsed back against the pillows, slack-jawed and shallow-breathed. Gin's legs relaxed, but remained loosely hooked around the middle of Izuru's back. The blond wiped his hand off on the duvet, then brought it up to push the sweaty hair out of Gin's face. Red eyes opened, and Gin caught Izuru's hand in one of his own.

For a long moment, nothing was spoken between them; and then, in a scratchy whisper:

"You close?"

Hanging on by a fucking thread, Izuru wanted to say, but couldn't do more than nod.

Gin smiled. "So c'mon, then," he said, and used his legs to rock Izuru deeply forward, both gasping at the sudden renewal of sensation.

It didn't take long. Unhindered by his preoccupation with Gin's pleasure, Izuru allowed his own to overtake him with erratic abandon.

Their hands clasped, he followed Gin's lead, and leapt off the ledge.

* * *

"Go. . .shi. . .san. . .ni. . ._ichi!_ HAPPY NEW YEAR!!"

Shuuhei rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger as the other partygoers erupted into cheers around him, their jumpy movements causing his vision to double.

"What's so fuckin' happy about it?" he groused loudly over the noise.

From the other side of the couch, Aoga tsked at him between tokes of a half-smoked marijuana cigarette. "Forget her, man. There're other lobsters in the tank."

"Don't you mean fish in the sea?"

"With all the rich bitches at our school? Trust me, man, it's lobsters."

He passed Shuuhei the joint. The spiky-haired boy puffed on it twice and held the smoke in his lungs.

"But look on the bright side."

"Whussat?" Shuuhei asked with the thin voice of one trying not to breathe.

"At least it ain't crabs."

He choked, spluttering, blackened laughter scorching his throat while Aoga guffawed at his own joke and Shuuhei's expense.

"What's so funny?" demanded Kanisawa, returning from the bathroom, still drying her hands on her jeans.

Aoga shook his head at her. "Nothin', baby, nothin'. Guy talk."

His girlfriend rolled her eyes. "Breasts, then. Aoga, come on. I wanna dance."

The long-faced boy sighed, yawned and stretched, then held out his arm so that she could tug him to his feet.

"Lazy bones," she grumbled, leading him away.

"Don't forget your claw cracker!" Shuuhei called after them.

Kanisawa looked between him and her boyfriend's lecherous grin.

"What's he talking about?"

"Seafood."

"Aoga."

"What? You don't want me in the mood for fish tonight?"

"Pigs. . ."

Left to his own misery, Shuuhei draped his arms over the back of the lounge, closed his eyes and allowed his head to roll back against the cushion.

He looked up again at the feel of the remainder of the joint being nicked from his fingers and a body plopping carelessly into his lap.

Yumichika beamed down at him, glittering like a disco ball.

"Happy New Year, Shuu-chan."

"Get _off,_" he ordered automatically.

"I intend to," Yumichika smirked, and didn't move. He placed the roach between Shuuhei's scowling lips. "Suck."

"Fuck you," said the black--- the red-eyed boy.

"Again," Yumi smiled, sinking lower into Shuuhei's lap, "I intend to."

He murmured happily when Shuuhei grasped his hips and flipped their positions so that Yumichika was the one seated on the sofa and Shuuhei halfway standing above him.

"Not. Interested."

Yumi threaded his legs around Shuuhei's waist with a rapidity the spiky-haired boy couldn't hope to intercede in his current state. He was pulled roughly forward and landed with a grunt against Yumichika's body.

"Let me go, Ayasegawa."

"Make me," challenged Yumi.

Shuuhei's right hand curled into a fist, but remained stationary. He sneered and shook his head in disgust.

"You look too much like a girl to hit."

"Oh? Then I should look enough like one to kiss."

Shuuhei splayed his fingers and pressed his palm against Yumichika's slender chest. "Not where it counts, dollface."

Yumi's mouth formed a moue of disappointment. "So crude, Shuu-chan. And as narrow-minded as I am narrow-hipped."

"Tch. This from the guy who's never judged anyone on anything _but_ their appearance."

"That's an _ugly_ lie, Shuu-chan."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot about Madarame."

The androgyne laughed. "Are you joking? Have you _seen_ Ikkaku naked?"

_DO NOT WANT---_

Shuuhei threw up in his mouth a little.

"You're shitting me."

"I shit you not. Although alas, he's been rather preoccupied as of late." Yumi's gaze shifted to fall upon Ikkaku and Nemu on the dance floor, who held each other like middle-schoolers: intimately and awkwardly, with feet barely shuffling to the rhythm of a popular ballad being piped through unseen speakers while the Vizored took a much-deserved break.

He sighed. "But really, Shuu-chan, has being Tousen-sensei's little protégé taught you nothing?"

Bloodshot eyes narrowed. "I don't follow."

"How would you judge a potential lover," posed Yumichika, "if you were blind? Would you be so quick to perceive a person's gender and its inherent beauty if you were unable to see the delicious symmetry of an hourglass form, or the well-balanced strength of broad shoulders? Confronted with a voice neither high nor low, and then feeling a mouth upon your own, warm and supple and responsive, before you had a chance to lay hands upon the gender-defining torso or genitalia of the kiss's conferrer, would you be so quick to condemn the possibility of being turned on by someone sighted society would consider non-traditional?"

The words filtered thick as honey through Shuuhei's narcotic-ablated brain. Only one thing about them stuck.

"That's bullshit. You. . .you could make the same argument in favor of kissing a dog!"

"Leave Abarai-kun out of this, please."

"Ayasegawa. . .no. Just because I couldn't see a cock coming does not mean I'd be open to having it shoved up my ass, even if someone shouted 'Surprise!' first in a girly voice. I don't not want to fuck you because I know you're a guy -- _I just don't want to fuck you._ Yes, you're very 'beautiful.' Yes, you throw great parties, and yes, you're pretty cool to hang out with -- _sometimes._ When you're not actively trying to ferret your way into my pants. So what _exactly_ is it gonna take to get you to drop this 'Shuu-chan' shit and leave me the hell alone? Because I'm not sure how much plainer I can make myself, or how much more of this I can stand."

Yumichika stared at him through long, feathered lashes, his violet eyes unreadable.

"One kiss, Shuu-chan," he said after a moment. "One open-minded, eyes-closed kiss."

"One kiss," Shuuhei repeated. "Seriously, that's it? _One_ kiss, and you'll cease and desist _completely_ with the Give In to the Gay Campaign?"

"Wherein it concerns you? Yes. One kiss, and my pursuit of you will be no more. Pinky promise." Yumi extended his little finger.

Shuuhei looked doubtful. Something about this proposition didn't feel right -- not that propositions from Yumichika ever _did_ -- but if conceding to it was the only way he would be given the freedom to lead an openly heterosexual lifestyle (and how fucked up was _that,_ anyway?), then. . .

". . .fine," he said, hooking his pinky around Yumi's and giving it a rather more forceful than necessary shake. "Let's get this over with."

The androgyne smiled serenely, removed his legs from Shuuhei's waist and maneuvered himself into a primly upright position.

"Sit down, please," he politely instructed, "and close your eyes."

Warily, Shuuhei sat, eyes shut. He felt the couch cushions dip around his thighs as Yumichika settled again in his lap.

"Hey--"

"For proper leverage only, I assure you."

Shuuhei's nostrils flared, but he didn't push the protest.

It had to have been the pot. If he hadn't been stoned, he might not have been so complacent. The tension between his eyes might not have abated so readily at the feel of Yumi's soft hand smoothing away the angry line that divided them. He might not have tilted his head back -- in fatigue, of course, and in no way intended to give the effeminate boy better access to his mouth at the first soft brushing of lips upon lips. And he had only opened his mouth in the first place to proclaim that that was it, that lips touching equaled a kiss completed, and too bad if Yumichika had wasted his only shot but Shuuhei's end of the bargain had been upheld and would Yumi please get the fuck off him now? It had not, had _not_ been an invitation for a tongue, or--

Shuuhei inhaled sharply as Yumichika exhaled into his mouth, warm and sweet and holy shit, it _was_ the pot -- Ayasegawa was breathing smoke into his lungs, sharing a hit he must have taken from the joint still daintily pinched between his long, thin fingers, and. . ._whoa. . ._

What? No! Not "whoa!" That was disgusting! It was unhygienic, and gross, and. . .and most assuredly _not_ one of the sexiest things anyone had _ever--_

A loud bang echoed from the foyer. Shuuhei felt Ayasegawa jump slightly beneath his hands. The kiss broke, and. . .wait, when the hell had his hands ended up on Yumichika's thighs?

"HAPPY NEW YEAR, ASSWIPES!"

_That voice. . ._ thought Shuuhei, exhaling a bluish plume, dazed from the weed and-- the weed.

Yumi drooped forward with an exasperated sigh.

"I cannot forgive them," he muttered into the stupefied boy's chest, then took a composing breath and stood to greet his latest "guests" in the foyer.

The music had stopped, Shuuhei noticed as he followed on unsteady legs. The reassembling Vizored -- hell, the entire party -- seemed to have been hit by an invisible pause button. Every gaze was glued to the six newcomers standing just inside the open doors, whom Shuuhei immediately placed as being the kendo team of Seireitei Academy's bitterest rival, Hueco Mundo High School.

"Well?" asked their teal-haired leader, his lips pulled back into a predatory, catlike grin. "What is this, some kinda fuckin' tea party? No one's gonna offer me a beer?"

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez," Ikkaku sneered. "Last time I saw you, you had your ass stuck up in the air an' your face planted in a tatami mat. Almost didn't recognize ya from this angle."

"Really?" said Grimmjow. "I don't remember that at all. It must've happened in your dreams, Madarame. How'd you like that view, anyway? Did ya wake up hard and have to fuck your little girlfriend there from behind so you could pretend it was me?"

Ikkaku tensed, his face going as red with anger as Nemu's did with humiliation. He removed his arm from around her waist and started forward.

"Oh dear," Yumichika sighed. "Still, at least they waited until after midnight. . .excuse me, gentlemen? Gentlemen!" He sidled lithely between Madarame and Jaegerjaquez before the two could meet. "Yes, hello, remember me, your host? The person whose home you are about to turn into a boxing ring? May I just point out one tiny, insignificant detail before this little duel commences?"

"Spit it out, Yumichika," snarled Ikkaku, not taking his eyes off the other captain.

"That's very gracious of you, Ikkaku, arigatou. Now, _this_" -- He gestured grandly around the large, crowded room -- "as you so adroitly pointed out, Jaegerjaquez-san, is a party. _My_ party, to get particular about it, filled with _my_ guests -- some three hundred of them, in fact -- who have been drinking _my_ booze and enjoying the music _I_ paid for, and having a very good time doing both. _You_ are six crashers who, I assume, seek to disrupt their merriment; indeed you have already done so. Now, all I ask is for a little common -- and I do mean _common_ -- sense and courtesy: that you take this outside, and save yourselves the embarrassment that will doubtless result from being outnumbered fifty to--"

There was a thick slapping noise as Yumichika's jaw stopped working at the behest of a long-haired blond's closed fist. He crumpled to the ground, and remained there.

"Sorry, bro," said the blond, smirking. "TL; DR."

Shuuhei didn't remember willing his body to move, and he was fairly sure that, had he been given enough time to think up an adequate battle cry, "Not the _face,_ asshole!" wouldn't have been it; but the outcome of both -- namely, the hard double crack of the blond's skull slamming into the door and the door slamming shut with the force of it -- was, he had to admit, nonetheless immensely satisfying.

"Thank you, Shuu-chan," Yumi said weakly, holding his jaw and swaying a bit as he was helped to his feet by Ikkaku, "but while that was very chivalrous of you. . ."

One of his hands disappeared into the opposite sleeve of his kimono.

It reappeared a second later, holding a Taser gun.

". . .it was ultimately unnecessary."

Shuuhei's eyes widened.

Grimmjow's did, too.

"Mother_f---_"

Onstage, the little drummer girl raised and clacked her sticks together. "_One two three four_---!"

* * *

"You know," said Rangiku, idly sipping her Jack and Coke as she lounged on the sofa Shuuhei and Yumichika had previously occupied, "I think this is even better than last year's party. What do you think, Nemu-kun?"

"I wouldn't know," the shy girl murmured, tucking her legs up in the nick of time to avoid their being crushed by the portliest of the party crashers as his bulk smashed the coffee table in front of them to splinters.

"Way to go, Ikkanzakas!" Rangiku called to the brawny brothers who had thrown him. "Shini-tai!" They bowed.

Rangiku toed the unconscious boy's pudgy cheek until he was facing away from them, then winked and smiled at her companion.

"It's not something us girls should have to look at, ne?"

Nemu swallowed nervously. "Um. . .the music is very good."

"Mm," Rangiku agreed. "But I have to say, I think I'm enjoying the light show more."

A small strobe effect in the other room was accompanied by the loud crackle of 50,000 advertised volts and a sputtering scream.

"Although," she continued, pouting, "Gin-chan's going to be so disappointed he missed all this! Mou, I hope he's having fun. . ."

* * *

"Izu. . .Izuru-cha-- _hah! _Nngh--!"

Izuru held Gin's straining hips against the glass wall of the guest room's luxurious private bath, where they had adjourned to clean up and the sharing of a shower had turned into a backtracking of the in-between techniques Izuru's earlier sensual education had skipped over.

He liked it, he decided, strange though it was to realize he had another boy in his mouth, had had him in his hands. It had been a bit awkward at first, until he'd figured out how (with a little instruction from Gin) to keep his lips over his teeth without feeling like an old man who'd lost his dentures, but now that he'd gotten the hang of it, paying attention to the spots he touched that elicited particularly sharp gasps from Gin. . .

"I-Izuru. . .Izuru, I, I'm, I-- _o-ohhh--_"

. . .he thought he could safely pride himself on having always been a quick study.

He pulled back a little, blinking rapidly at the slightly bitter taste that filled his mouth as Gin moaned and shivered through his release, splayed fingers kinking, their wet tips squeaking against the glass.

Izuru swallowed quickly (before he could think too much about it), then cupped one of his hands, held it under the shower spray and rinsed his mouth before rising to his feet.

"How'd I do?" he asked, smiling a little.

Gin, still somewhat winded and relaxing with his head tilted back against the wall, cracked open an eyelid. "Ya couldn't tell?"

Izuru shrugged.

"Saa," Gin sighed, "Izuru-chan's so needy. . ."

He stepped under the spray, tugging Izuru with him by the hands. The blond lifted his face to the water, which fell softly, like warm rain, against his skin. Gin hugged him, kissed him, and for the first time in two months, Izuru wanted to die. This time, however, the urge was rooted on the opposite side of garden from despair.

It couldn't get any better than this. If happiness had a peak, he wanted it to be a burial mound, with his tombstone standing forever at the top.

They exited the shower when Gin started to complain about the pruney state of his fingertips, and laughed at the still visible imprint of Gin's shoulders, ass and hands in the steam-fogged glass. The linen cabinet was found to be stuffed with fluffy green- and gold-colored towels, and Izuru's eyes drifted tiredly, contentedly shut as Gin took it upon himself to dry him off, beginning with his feet, working his way up his legs, pressing gently against his groin.

"Hey," said the silver-haired boy as the Izuru felt terry cloth ascend his torso and wick away the water that clung to his slim arms. "You're not that sleepy yet, are ya?"

"Uh-uh," Izuru mumbled, swaying a little.

"Good."

The towel was looped around his neck, and he allowed himself to be drawn into another kiss before he was lead out of the bathroom.

"We missed the stroke o'midnight, so ta speak," his boyfriend continued, "but that's no reason ta slack off on formalities. This is Ayasegawa-kun's house, after all."

"Mm." Izuru felt his legs bump against the bed and automatically fell forward, curling up fetal on the sheets (Gin having had the foresight to strip the bed of its soiled duvet on their way to the bathroom).

"Iii-zu-ruuu. . ."

"Hngh."

"Time for wakies. . ."

The sharp squeeze of a thumb and forefinger just above Izuru's right knee startled him fully awake with a squawk.

"Bastard!" he exclaimed, swatting ineffectually at Gin, who danced, crowing with laughter, out of the way.

Izuru glared at him, or tried to -- the urge to smile had never been so strong as it was when he was with the fox-faced boy, and he was gladly still awful at suppressing it.

He crawled up to the head of the bed and made himself comfortable against the decorative pillows, tucking his legs, crossed at the ankles, up to his chest and resting his chin against his knees as he watched Gin peel away the champagne bottle's foil wrapper.

The silver-haired boy sat on the edge of the bed and braced the bottle between his naked thighs as he eased the cork out with damp thumbs. Izuru jumped as it popped suddenly and ricocheted off one of the walls to land somewhere amongst the pile of their discarded clothing. Gin took a swig, then handed over the bottle with the satisfied sigh of the thirst-quenched. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Izuru raised the bottle to his lips and had just begun to take a drink when Gin sharply tipped the base of it into the air, so that he ended up taking a much larger gulp than he'd intended. Sparkling wine spilled down his front and bubbled spicily on his tongue and down his gullet, nearly choking him.

"Maa, look what you did, Izuru-chan!" accused Gin. "An' just when we'd gotten all cleaned up, too!"

"Sorry," Izuru said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Gin moved closer, nudging the younger boy's legs down a little to straddle his waist with two wiry arms.

"This is why we can't have nice things," Gin scolded, in a voice that was anything but reproachful. He dipped his head to lick at the trail of champagne that dashed along Izuru's chest.

Neither had noticed how quiet the room had become until the music from the house's lower level started up again, and the partygoers' shouts kicked up a notch in volume.

"Wow," said Izuru. "It sounds like things are really picking up down there."

"Ya wanna head back down?" offered Gin.

Izuru pressed his lips together and worried them meditatively.

". . .no," he decided, a mischievous smile bending the corners of his mouth. "Not like that."

Gin smirked. "That so? I thought you were sleepy?"

"I'm _fifteen,_" Izuru pointed out. "I don't get 'sleepy.'"

"Good thing," said Gin, plucking the bottle from Izuru's hand and placing it on the bedside table, "'cause I'm a downright insomniac. . ."

* * *

Renji heaved breathlessly as he powered his way through the snow through sheer force of will, as he was fairly certain he had left his lungs lying shriveled up and twitching somewhere around Yumi's garden shed. Fuck, he really needed to quit smoking. . .

He chanced a look over his shoulder, and groaned. Goddamn, she was persistent! What _was_ it about short chicks. . .?

"She's full of shit!" he shouted at the approaching trees. "I never said anything derogatory about Yoruichi!"

"Then why are you running?!" came the echoing reply.

"Wouldn't you?!" Renji threw back.

"Coward!"

"Crazy bitch!"

He pumped his arms harder, hoping for a burst of speed. Miraculously, he still had his beer. His right sleeve had absorbed about half of it, but those sloshing sounds couldn't _only_ be coming from his stomach. . .

A scream resonated from behind him. Had it been lower in pitch, he might have even called it a bellow. Either way, he recognized it for the warning that it was, and had only a split-second to prepare himself before a pair of small boots planted themselves in his back and sent him sledding bodily, face-first, through the snow.

Stunned, he only just managed to roll out of the way before one of the boots came in for their second attack. It landed with a hard thud on the ground where his ass would have been -- or worse, if he had only turned over.

"_Fuck!_" he cried, instinctively cupping his crotch at the thought. "What the hell're you tryin' to do?!"

"Ensure the better breeding of future generations?" Shaolin suggested, bent double with her hands on her knees to better catch her breath.

Renji struggled for a response to that, but was only able to fall back on another horrified "_Fuck!_"

Yoruichi's "ninja warrior" smirked and stood straight again.

"You can stop playing with yourself now," she told him, nodding at his occupied hands. "I'm done."

"Hell no! Not until your ass is in a straightjacket!"

"If you want, I could put yours in a sling?"

"_Why,_" panted Rukia as she approached, "is everyone always talking about butts whenever I enter a conversation?"

Renji shrugged, the movement adding epaulets to the shoulders of his impromptu snow angel. "Just lucky, I guess." He righted himself -- awkwardly, still unwilling to leave himself. . .vulnerable to attack -- and climbed to his feet. "Where are we, anyway?"

"I don't know. . ." Rukia glanced around for familiar landmarks. "Are we even on Ayasegawa-san's property anymore?"

Renji looked up at the stars with a vague delusion of navigatory ability. A clump of snow that had been clinging to the hair at the base of his skull dislodged and slipped underneath his collar to ripple down the length of his spine. He spasmed, jerking forward hard enough to hear something crack, and flapped the hem of his shirt to free the ice before it could get any wise ideas about his waistband.

"Fuck, it's cold!" He glared accusingly at Shaolin. "This is all your fault!"

"_My_ fault?!" she shrilled. "_You_ were the idiot who ran so far without knowing where you were going!"

"Yeah, and _you_ were the idiot who followed me, so who's stupider?"

"_Shut up,_ both of you!" Rukia ordered, sensing that any further backtracking toward the cause of their dilemma would all too quickly lead to her. "It's not like we can't find our way back." She gestured to the winding and roughly hewn path that had been plowed through the white powder behind them.

No wonder Shaolin had managed to catch up to him despite his longer stride, Renji realized -- he'd practically cleared the way for her.

Cold air coupled with situational irony to make his throat feel thick. He hauked up phlegm and spat onto the snow.

"Gross," said Shaolin.

"You know any other methods for getting it out?" the redhead asked. "'cause if you do, I'm all ears -- and all tongue, if it comes to that."

"Renji, don't be. . ._you,_" chastened Rukia. "Let's just head back to the party, get warm, have another drink -- or another cake -- and ring in the New Year without any frostbitten parts falling off."

"Such as Abarai's--"

"_Shaolin._"

"Tch. Fine. There probably isn't even anything _to_ fall off, anyway. . ."

"Oi! You wanna see for yourself?!" Renji started to unbuckle his belt.

"Go ahead. I could use the laugh."

"For goodness' sake, what are you both, _five?_" Rukia snapped. "Renji, keep your pants on. Shaolin, stop teasing him."

"Okay, Sousuke. . ."

"Do you _want_ a spanking? --Don't answer that. Just--"

The trio jumped as a police siren suddenly sounded a brief warning blip, chased a moment later by swirling blue and red lights along a previously unnoticed stretch of road just beyond the tree line.

"--run!"

"What, _more?_" Renji whimpered, legs already moving.

Behind them, the sound of car doors opening preceded that of two foreign pairs of feet crunching through the snow. There had been a time, Renji reflected, when he would have seriously entertained the idea of doubling back and making his getaway in the police car itself, and he ticked off his (in his opinion, very admirable) self-restraint as yet another instance in which his ultimate goal had pushed him to mature.

Fucking Byakuya.

_No,_ his brain corrected, _you're not, and him ever finding out about this ain't likely to help make that happen, so keep fucking running, shithead!_

And he would have, too, like a bullet train, all the way to Tokyo -- if somebody hadn't relocated the Great Wall of fucking China to stand directly perpendicular to his escape route.

"Son of a bitch!" he swore. "I hate paranoid rich people!"

Shaolin was the only one who looked undeterred. She took a few steps back, got a running start, sprang and scrambled up the wall like a human incarnation of a game of Pong.

"What the fuck, Jackie Chan!" Renji gaped, then glanced at Rukia sidelong. "She's _good,_" he grudgingly admitted.

"Yeah, well, I'm not -- give me a boost!"

Renji dropped down on one knee, and Rukia ascended his thigh and shoulder like steps, ignoring his winded "Oof!" when she vaulted over the top of the wall.

"Stop! Police!"

"Shit!"

"Renji!" exclaimed Rukia from the other side.

"Kuchiki, leave him! He's dead weight!"

"No! We can't just--"

"No, Crazy Bitch is right!" Renji cut her off as flashlight beams zigzagged around his feet like fat terrestrial fireflies. "Just go, I'll be fine! _I'll call you later!_"

There was a second of hesitant silence, but the clipped "--Okay!" that followed it told him Rukia had caught his meaning.

"Damn it," Renji sighed, and obeyed the voice behind him that ordered him to place his hands on top of his head and turn around.

* * *

"Awww, already?!" Rangiku whined. "It's barely one o'clock!"

"What is it?" Nemu followed the busty girl's line of sight to the front door, where a handful of uniformed adults had appeared, looking decidedly unimpressed. "Oh, no. . ."

Rangiku cupped her hands around her mouth and took a deep breath, the buttons on her sweater straining.

"_**COPS!!!**_"

There was a moment of crystalized time as the music halted and some six hundred eyes, a few of them blacked out by bruises, swiveled to the front of the foyer.

Then the situation sunk in, the moment shattered, and Rangiku's shout took effect like a gunshot to a herd of cattle. Nemu was curious as to whether or not the word would have produced the same results had it been whispered, if it was something like a dog whistle that only delinquent young could hear. Unfortunately, she hadn't the time to experiment -- if her name was taken, and her father contacted. . .

Nemu suppressed a shudder as she negotiated the stampede -- no simple task, given that it was feeding into multiple exit points, but she hadn't come this far and risked what she had just to run away without even saying goodbye.

She found Ikkaku landing a final punch to a _gargantuan_ redheaded, broad-jawed crasher. One of the bald boy's eyes was the color of an eggplant and swollen shut, but the grin on his face cast doubt upon whether or not he even realized he was injured.

"Madarame-san!"

Ikkaku turned at the sound of her voice. "Nemu-san!" He released his hold on the front of the crasher's shirt, and the huge boy landed with a soft, sandbag-like thud on the floor. "You okay?"

"Yes. I must leave, though."

Ikkaku nodded. "I gotta stay. Y'know, for Yumi."

"Of course. Please relay to Ayasegawa-san that I had a very enjoyable time."

"Aa, I'll tell him. An' I. . ." He hesitated, then blew out a breath and passed a hand self-consciously over his smooth head. "I'm glad. Real glad. Ya know?"

Nemu smiled. Yes, she knew.

Two hours. It hadn't been much, but she had _made_ the time, had manipulated the world around her to birth it into being. It was a concept her father somehow couldn't understand. Her father the scientist, obsessed with the blueprints of the world with no regard for the final product, always running out of time because nothing could ever be seen as finished through eyes blinded by details. He would have dismissed Nemu's precious, precious two hours with the boy she coveted, who was everything she wasn't and who made her feel so. . ._human, _as a waste, and she nothing more than a stupid girl doing stupid things, all for the sake of a stupid boy, just like all the others. Just like everyone else.

Normality. It was, she thought, the sweetest hypothesis anyone could state about another being. All requirements fulfilled. Moderate. Average.

Acceptable.

A groan rumbled up from Ikkaku's feet as his opponent pushed himself up on arms thick as stalks of timber bamboo. The skinhead sneered and undid the effort with a combat boot to the middle of a mountainous back.

"Stay _down,_ Koopa! Jeez, this guy--"

Nemu's hands on his heated cheeks, softly placed and mindful of his bruised eye, suckerpunched the sentence short. Ikkaku stared down at her, his ordinarily narrow eyes widened by surprise, and dilated.

"Nem. . .Nemu-san. . .?"

It was, she concluded, an adequate first kiss: lips closed but their pressure strong, its duration quick, but long enough for her meaning to sink in like salve. It was, she concluded, achingly, _perfectly_ normal.

"Goodbye, Madarame-san," she whispered, and fled before her bravado could break beneath her feet, following the tail end of the nearest column of her classmates through the south-eastern corridors of Yumichika's labyrinthine home.

She was at the threshold of a lily-laden conservatory almost half a dozen rooms away when a victorious whoop of "LUCKYYYYYY!!" reached her own pinkening ears.

* * *

Izuru stood a pace away from the window, watching the procession of cars and kids leave Yumichika's house, some leaping dramatically over hoods to get to their vehicles, others already at the wheel carving flowers and figure-eights into the snow as they swerved around each other and the patrol cars blocking the gate. Those with tires suited for it avoided the driveway altogether and swung around to the back of the house, to unknown exits somewhere across the grounds.

He clutched the sheet he had wrapped around his shoulders a little more tightly.

"Should we hide under the bed or something?"

He heard Gin's amused chuckle before he felt the taller boy's long arms wrap loosely around his midsection.

"Nah, they ain't gonna search this house. They'd be workin' supermarket security for the rest o'their lives by the time Ayasegawa-kun's parents' lawyers got done with 'em. There's too many of us an' not enough o'them for them ta bother nabbin' more'n a couple o'folks who don't got sense enough ta make themselves scarce, but no one's actually gotta leave. Mostly people only run 'cause they like ta think they're gettin' away with somethin'. Makes 'em feel all clever an' dangerous."

"Oh. So, we're safe?"

"Yeah," said Gin, nuzzling the side of the younger boy's throat with his nose. "We're safe. An' besides, it ain't like Sousuke don't unnofficially know what goes on at parties like this."

Izuru inhaled shakily as Gin nipped at and kissed the sensitive curve joining his neck and shoulder. He imagined Aizen watching them from a corner or a closet or through the window, his breath clouding up the glass, and shuddered. Would he know, when they got back tomorrow, what they had done? He was aware that they were together -- he had to be, even if he'd never indicated as much (and was that weird?); if discretion was the better part of valor, then neither Izuru nor Gin had been particularly valiant when it came to their relationship.

But then, what was there for Aizen to worry about, really? They were both boys, so a teen pregnancy was out of the question, and their medical records were up-to-date, proclaiming both to be healthy and disease-free (or, as Gin had put it upon Izuru's earlier raising of the issue of protection, "What's the point? I'm clean an' you're a virgin").

"He's really trusting, isn't he?" Izuru asked. "I mean, to turn a blind eye like that. . .he must really have a lot of faith in us to know our own limits and not do anything _too_ stupid."

"Tch. Trust ain't got nothin' ta do with it," Gin said darkly, a sudden spike of spite fuzzing the outline of his words. "There's nothin' we can do _with_ his permission that we can't do without it. It's all an illusion, Izuru-chan. His power, his authority. . .it's all just make-believe."

"Like running from parties."

"Makes 'em feel all clever an' dangerous," confirmed Gin. "Gets it outta their systems so they don't feel the need ta act out for real. That ain't trust, Izuru-chan. That's mind-control."

Izuru reached up to rake his fingers comfortingly through the soft, short hair at his boyfriend's nape. "You make him sound so scary. I thought you liked him."

He felt Gin shrug behind him.

"Ya don't hafta hate a cobra ta know when an' why it's dancin'. I didn't say that what he does doesn't work. It's just bullshit, is all. How can a thing that ain't even real be scary?"

Izuru smirked wryly. "So Aizen-san's just a monster under the bed?"

Gin hummed a laugh into his ear, then picked the blond up at the waist and swung him around to toss him gracelessly back on top of the mattress. Mummified in the sheets, it took Izuru a minute to work himself free. When he finally did, he found Gin grinning down at him.

"Not our bed," the fox-faced boy avowed, and joined him.

* * *

_**Burnt silver brushed lavender offspring  
**Sprung from me when first we kissed__  
You held me quietly; a rush purged me of my past__  
Opened a desert of diamonds vast__  
Glinting; and a tiny chorus of swallows  
__Swung open the door, freed the caged bees and wallows__  
Swarm geometric patterns on the sun  
__Eclipse new moon  
__And tempt my werewolf not to run  
Tempt my werewolf not to run_

_Promise me that you'll cherish__  
This tarnished  
Oh, this tarnished offering. . ._ -- CocoRosie, "Promise"

* * *

**A/N**: _Has anyone ever been to a house party where the whole "oh noez cops RUN!" thing actually happens? Because all I've ever experienced is "blah blah blah, neighbors, courtesy, etc., keep the noise down kthxbai" in an I-Might-Be-On-Cops Voice followed by a few minutes of subdued obedience & then the resumption of boisterous festivities. But it always looks like fun in movies, so it's here. Also, regarding Yumi's Taser -- I know guns are illegal in Japan, but I couldn't find any information on electroshock weaponry, so I just went with it. But if those are prohibited too, well. . .blame Zaraki? ;D_

_I can't believe I've been writing this thing for more than a year now. . .what a trip. The next installment, in case any One Percent fans might be feeling forgotten, will collect bastardry tax, so please stay tuned. _

_As always, thank you for reading -- & for sticking around this long. :)  
_


	15. In the Shrine of the Sea Monkey

**XV. In the Shrine of the Sea Monkey**

* * *

Renji lay back on the narrow bedroll that occupied one corner of his (well, it was really the only one there) small holding cell, folded his arms behind his head, grimaced at the stench of beer emanating from his right cuff, and resigned himself to laying on his left side instead. His view now was of the stained squat toilet on the other side of the cell. _Story of my life,_ he thought, and closed his eyes to the sight.

Oh well. He ought, at least, to be getting out of there soon. His cell was close enough to the front desk that he had been able to listen in on one half of the phone conversation between the police officer stationed there and the number Renji had supplied as that of his home.

Rukia had played along beautifully, as he'd known she would. Her end of the call had been easy for Renji's imagination to fill in:

_Moshi moshi, Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children, how may I help you? . . .I'm sorry, Aizen-san unavailable at the moment; may I take a message? . . .the police? What's happened? Is someone in trouble, did someone get hurt? . . .Abarai-kun? Trespassing?! But that doesn't sound like Abarai-kun at all! He's such a good, kind, decent, upstanding-- _(here Renji allowed his imagination free adjectival reign for a few moments) _--drunk, you said? Preposterous. It must have been forced upon him. No one with a heart as gentle, pure, righteous. . ._ (he really had quite the vocabulary when the occasion called for it) _. . .absolutely, I'll let Aizen-san know the second I see him! Where is he being held again?_

That had been roughly an hour ago. Renji wondered who Rukia would end up sending in Aizen's stead. She could call Yumichika, who could no doubt wheedle -- that is, pay -- one of the more normal-looking Vizored into posing as Renji's guardian. Or she could get Yoruichi's number from Shaolin, whose cooperation would be guaranteed not for Renji's sake, but because she would take any excuse at all to make use of that precious scrap of information. It wouldn't be the ideal option -- being monetarily indebted to Yumichika would be infinitely preferable to being personally indebted to two teachers and one ankle-biting arch nemesis -- but Yoruichi and Urahara-sensei both seemed to understand better than their colleagues the importance of allowing youth to get away with ultimately harmless things.

Renji's heart pumped hope into his bloodstream when he heard the door to the police box open, and the desk jockey's question of "May I help you?" told him it was not merely the coming or going of another officer. But then--

"I am here to collect Abarai Renji."

--his hope transfigured into terror.

No. Oh, no, she _didn't._ She _wouldn't._

"Your name?" requested the clerk.

"Kuchiki Byakuya."

She had.

_Oh, Rukia, how could you?_

"Ku. . ._Kuchiki?_ Ano, like. . ._Kuchiki_-Kuchiki?"

The clerk's floundering hammered the name into Renji's skull beyond any protective barriers of disbelief.

_Yes, fuckwit,_ he answered in his teacher's stead. _Kuchiki-Kuchiki. Kuchiki fucking Byakuya._

"E-even so, Kuchiki-san, we can't just release the boy into the custody of a person who hasn't been declared legally responsible for him."

"Of course. You may rest assured, I am Abarai's professor of Japanese History at Seireitei Academy, in addition to being financially accountable for the foster home at which he resides. There is no one more invested in his welfare than I."

Somehow, Renji doubted that very much, unless Byakuya was subtly referring to his ability to cover the funeral costs when he stared his young charge down into death by disappointment, humiliation and shame.

He buried his face in his arms, realized the action muffled the voices, looked up again.

". . .will speak to Kasumiouji-san. Doubtless he will come to agree that no charges need be filed against a simple mistake. And considering the area you serve, I am confident that your own discretion is well-practiced and of an admirable caliber that will ensure the longevity of your career."

"Ha. . .hai," stammered the guard. "Of course. I-if you could please just sign these release forms, I'll, uh, I will go and fetch the boy. . ."

Renji bolted upright from the bedroll and rushed to smooth his hair (his hair tie and thus his braid having been sacrificed to the crowd surfing gods) and rub the creases out of his cheek where his face had been resting against his sleeve. He wished he had a mirror.

Who was he kidding? He wished he had a jackhammer, a shovel, and a map to the other side of the world.

His cell door was unlocked and opened with a heavy, rattling sound. The guard glared at him, attempting to look puffed-up and important and like he hadn't until now been spending his New Year's Eve ogling the oversized breasts of a manga heroine.

"Let's go," he ordered. "You have no idea how lucky you are, kid."

Renji winced. "You _really_ wouldn't be saying that if you were me."

He kept his gaze trained on the floor as he was led out into the. . .what _was_ it in a police box, anyway? A lobby? A reception area? A waiting room?

No -- Purgatory. One level preceding Hell.

And the Devil wore shiny black shoes.

Renji swallowed and forced his eyes to continue past the high-gloss leather vamps, up to neatly pressed black slacks, a black suit jacket, a crisp white dress shirt with its top button undone and a pale pink necktie draped, unknotted, around its collar. . .and then that face. That sublimely impressive and _supremely_ unimpressed face.

Fuck.

"Sensei. . ." Renji croaked, and found that it was all he could manage.

Byakuya said nothing, only turned and sauntered out the door. Chopfallen, Renji followed, head down, proverbial tail between his legs. He fought the urge to whimper in apology.

A streamlined black Bentley awaited them outside. Byakuya got in the driver's side and slammed the door shut behind him, and Renji hesitated, unsure if the action was meant to be translated into a very long, very chilly walk home ahead of him.

The car started, chuffing steam into the cold night air from its tailpipe. When, after a moment, it didn't move, he jumped in the passenger's side before he could be accused of dawdling.

* * *

They drove for a while in silence, and Byakuya took the opportunity to study his teacher's aid on the periphery of his vision. Renji was huddled as low in the seat as he could manage, which, for a boy his size, wasn't terribly far. He stared at the dash, out the window, down at his hands -- anywhere but at his unanticipated rescuer. He was probably expecting to be harangued at any given moment, and indeed, such had been Byakuya's first instinct, until the drive from the Senzaikyuu to Kuja had cooled his thoughts enough to reconsider the wisdom of dressing down a drunk and disorderly teenager. Not that he feared an adverse response from Renji, but it seemed a futile action to throw words at a lubricated brain and expect them to stick.

Fortunately, Renji didn't appear to have unfurled all three sheets to the wind -- or if he had, they were now flapping idly in a distinct lack of breeze. Either way, Byakuya hadn't any longer the energy to properly remonstrate the boy for his folly -- an indolent magnanimity born from a bitter one.

He really ought to have turned off his phone.

_"B. . .Byakuya-nii-sama?"_

_"Rukia?"_

_"Nii-sama, I need your help."_

Of course, the possibility of those six words was exactly why he hadn't, even though his memory now vehemently insisted that his heart had not performed backflips of panic in his chest at their utterance.

It had not.

_"What's wrong?"_

_"It's Renji. We were at Ayasegawa-san's party together and I wasn't feeling well so he went for a walk with me, only we went too far and got lost and ended up on someone else's property, and they must have called the police and we tried to run and he helped me get away, but he got caught, and they took him down to the Kuja-ku police box and he gave them my number and I pretended to be at Pure Souls because Aizen-san can't know about this, he can't, but someone needs to go and get him and I. . .I didn't know who else to call."_

It had taken Byakuya a moment to reorder her breathless run-on into something approaching sense.

_". . .Nii-sama?"_

_"You're asking me to retrieve Abarai from a police box, purchase the silence of the officers and the family involved, and then chauffeur him home?"_

_"No, not. . .not home. To my apartment."_

_"Ah. Forgive me, but I require clarification. . .is this a favor you're requesting, or a further collection of bastardry tax?"_

Had that been petty? Perhaps, but he hadn't been able to restrain his tongue. He could be. . .rash. . .in matters concerning Rukia. He was, in her presence, regrettable.

_". . .you--"_

_"Heard you? Yes, very clearly."_

_". . .Byakuya, please. Y-you promised. I was with Renji. I'll go back and, and turn myself in!"_

_"Bribery now. How quaint. Tell me, do you imagine your sister would approve of your use of her memory as a tool to guilt me into obeying your every whim?"_

_"My every. . ."_

Her tone was instantly recognizable, and painfully familiar: the breathy, disbelieving build-up of an indignant eruption that unfortunately seemed to run in the family like a magma flow.

_"__**What**__ whims?! I've never __**asked**__ you for anything, __**anything**__ until now! Not even--" _

The cloud of ash stopped short, and was drawn with an audible breath back into the mountain.

_". . .look, if you won't do it for me, then do it for Renji. He works so hard for you, you don't even. . .getting to be your T.A. was __**so**__ amazing for him, and he doesn't deserve to have everything he's worked for jeopardized because he was stupid enough to be a good friend to me. He could lose __**everything**__ if Aizen-san finds out about this, and you're the only one with enough clout to keep that from happening. Yes, he made a mistake, but it was __**my**__ fault, and if he goes down for it, he won't be going alone. You don't do that to family. So either help us out or don't, and in sixty years or so you can ask __**my sister**__ if you made the right decision."_

He wasn't sure which of them had hung up first after that, nor could he be certain why he had ultimately chosen to go along with Rukia's little scheme. He doubted highly that his sister-in-law alone was truly to blame for Renji's predicament. Byakuya did not know the boy particularly well -- not _personally,_ in any case -- but he considered himself to be a decent enough judge of character, and one really didn't need to look further than skin-deep to see that Abarai Renji was a youth less concerned than most with flouting the status quo. That _hair,_ those _tattoos. . ._and on a boy of fourteen, no less! What sort of back-alley establishments had he frequented -- did he _continue_ to frequent -- that would consent to permanently marking the skin of a _child?_

Hisana, despite her commonality, had been endowed with the inborn grace and loveliness of a queen, and Rukia herself possessed an aura of intermittent but authentic dignity, that of a small girl assertive enough to find something on which to stand before she would ever allow herself to be trod upon.

Renji, on the other hand. . .

He was cut from the same pattern, perhaps, but not the same cloth. It was the difference between "homeless" and "wild," and Byakuya might never have discerned his tiger stripes from the reeds had the man-cub not already been too embroiled in Rukia's life upon Byakuya and Hisana's acquisition of her guardianship for his existence to be avoidable. News of Renji's acceptance into Pure Souls and the Academy had not galled Byakuya so much as it had startled him, but when he examined the boy's results himself, he had been forced to consider that it was a pet who had followed her back to the village, and not a man-eater.

He'd caught himself quickly, of course. So Renji could memorize facts; so what? A parrot that could speak didn't necessarily know what it was talking about.

Nonetheless, Abarai Renji, hair, tattoos, and all the rest of him, had caught a corner of Byakuya's eye, and the corporate prince began to surreptitiously search the whelp for signs of housebreaking.

Now, he had to wonder: was it possible he had somehow always missed Renji's looking back whenever he, Byakuya, managed to look away?

Kuchiki Byakuya was no stranger to student crushes. He hadn't any personal vanity beyond that which had been instilled upon him by circumstance of birth -- being well-groomed was second nature to him, the fastening of cufflinks and the impeccable knotting of a tie having been taught alongside lessons in shoe-tying and teeth-brushing -- but he was objectively aware that the face daily reflected back at him in his mirror was symmetrically above-average. He had, over time, learned to take the simpering stares and fluttering eyelashes in stride, as hazards of his profession little different from papercuts or burst pens. Love notes were shredded and ignored, and Ukitake-sensei was always too happy to take the chocolates Byakuya received every Valentine's Day off his hands.

But Renji did not flutter his lashes, nor was he prone to expressing himself particularly well on paper, and Byakuya had seen the boy in the halls on Valentine's Day with his fair share of chocolates from the female student body, devouring them with smug winks and wolfish smiles in the directions of their gifters. He therefore found it difficult to believe Urahara's insinuations on the night of the Fireworks Festival. The thought of Renji romantically infatuated with him. . .it made so little sense as to seem transposed from a child's storybook told entirely in made-up words for concepts that worked backwards.

Even so, once the seed of the thing had been planted in his mind, it had sprouted with all the tenacity of an enchanted beanstalk, and when the boy had found him in front of the kendo exhibition and engaged him in stilted, nervous conversation, Byakuya hadn't been able to quell the morbid curiosity that had arisen within him to study the matter in-depth.

Never in the three brief years he had known Abarai Renji had Byakuya ever expected to be reminded so much of himself -- not at that age, but a little older, after having been dragged through hell and back in "celebration" of his twenty-second birthday. Yoruichi and Kisuke had termed the trip a "pub crawl," and oh, God, had he ended up crawling. It was nothing short of miraculous that he remembered the night at all, but remember it he did, in rather agonizing detail: the bars (innumerable), the café (Maid in Heaven), the waitress ("May I take your order?" "Marrymenowandlovemeforever"), the subsequent stumblings over feet and tongue, the crêpes in his face and the coffee in his lap (_God_), and the six days it had taken him to summon together the scattered blades of his courage and go back, to make apologies and, against all odds, their first date. . .

But no, he had to have been misreading things. Renji was. . .well, _Renji._ He was tall, athletically built and inclined, crass with his peers and always clothed in such a way that suggested he did everything possible to appear as though his body was struggling to escape the confines of his uniform. He was so. . .mercilessly _masculine._ There was nothing about him that suggested the sort of moony-eyed subservience to which Urahara had been referring that Byakuya had encountered in Renji's female predecessors. In fact, of the two of them, Byakuya knew well that he himself would sooner be singled out as being predisposed toward that particular form of "alternative" lifestyle.

The knowledge that he indeed _was,_ however, was a closely guarded privilege that thus far he had extended to only one other person -- one who had enjoyed it possibly even more than he did.

She had, in fact, loved that aspect of him, loved that, together, they could mutually admire a beautiful form regardless of the gender to which it was attached. She'd loved that his jealousy never stemmed from the way her eyes might wander, because his own were welcome to stray in the same direction. It was a freedom, a trust that had empowered their relationship rather than diminished it, that they could look at everyone and touch only each other. What better way was there, after all, to ensure the endurance of a dream than by fueling it with fantasies?

Fantasies which were all Byakuya had left now, and with which he could rarely bring himself to toy. Hisana had taken more than his secret to her grave. He'd known even before he'd married her that she would be the last woman to grace his bed. Even Shihouin and Urahara understood the finality of that, at least, which was perhaps why they had uncharacteristically failed to tease him about a newfound penchant for younger women on their way home from the festival, when a sleepy Fong Shaolin had seen fit to employ his left shoulder as a pillow for the duration of the ride's second half.

Younger men, on the other hand. . .

"Where _did_ you run off to, anyway?" Kisuke had asked, keeping one eye on Yoruichi as she made her way up the Fongs' drive with her small protégé curled contentedly in her arms. "Or were you hiding in the toilet the entire night?" He sniffed. "If so, you must let me in on your secret for warding off the smell. I always light a match, but Yoruichi insists there's a lingering _eau de_--"

"No," Byakuya interrupted him before he could complete the vulgarity. "I walked. Alone."

"Is that so? Because as we were passing the kendo exhibition I could have _sworn_ I saw a man who looked uncannily like you conversing with someone who was the spitting image of Abarai Renji-kun. Isn't that funny?" He flicked open his fan and fluttered it rapidly.

Byakuya remained stonefaced.

"Hilarious."

"Oh, quite, quite. I wonder what they talked about?"

"I cannot imagine."

"At all, ever? What a terrible handicap. No wonder you're such a fuddy-duddy."

"Are you quite finished?"

"Almost." Urahara cleared his throat. "_Ku-__**chi**__-ki-san and __**Ren**__-ji-kun, __**sit**__-ting in a tree--_"

"_K-I-L-L-I-N-G._"

The physics professor tutted in annoyance. "Damn your overseas education and snappy, incisive delivery."

Byakuya closed his eyes.

"Urahara-san."

"Hmm?"

"Precisely how long do you intend on persisting with these perverse insinuations?"

"Twenty-eight days, six hours, forty-two minutes and twelve seconds. Why?"

He took a deep breath and released it at length.

". . .I see."

The creaky sound of something heavy shifting over leather resonated from the front seat, and Byakuya opened his eyes to the unwelcome sight of Kisuke's, strangely bright beneath the shadow of his hat brim, staring at him with uncharacteristic earnestness.

"It honestly bothers you, doesn't it?" the blond man asked.

Byakuya gazed at him levelly. "I don't know what you mean."

"Kuchiki-san, please. I've been giving you shit for thirty years. You think I can't tell the difference by now?"

"I think you do not care regardless."

Urahara shrugged. "Be that as it may, you know I don't mean it seriously. Methinks thou dost protest too much. . ."

He did not. Of course he did not. He, Kuchiki Byakuya, fantasize about _Renji_, of all people? There weren't enough forms of protest in the world to adequately deny the accusation. No, it was a notion he had not, nor would he ever, entertain. Lonely he was, occasionally to the point of despair, but never, _never_ to the point of depravity. Urahara was insane, a lecher of the highest order, and tall, athletically built, half-clothed, red-haired, tattooed, wolfishly smiling, mercilessly masculine Abarai Renji was only seventeen years old.

Byakuya tore his eyes -- in no way guiltily -- from the brawny youth sitting beside him.

If he hadn't, he might have met the young man's gaze as it slid hesitantly in his direction.

* * *

The feel of the car gliding smoothly to a stop and the sound of the driver's side window mechanically lowering jarred Renji out of the light doze that introspective self-pity and the darkly passing scenery had, despite all laws of probability, managed to induce. He glanced over at Byakuya, who was punching a many-digit code into a chrome call box just outside his window.

The gates in front of them opened automatically, sliding back to reveal a long drive and large house that seemed to be made out of equal parts glass and porcelain.

"Sensei?" he asked, forgetting himself in his surprise. "Where are we?"

"My home."

Renji's eyes bulged.

"Your. . ."

"Have you another suggestion?" Byakuya enquired. "Rukia has informed me that returning you to the foster home tonight is not an option, and as you have proven yourself to be untrustworthy in the absence of adult supervision, it would be remiss of me to leave you to your own devices at her apartment."

Renji's heart did laps in his stomach.

"H. . .hai. . ."

"If it is any comfort, I am as elated about the situation as you are."

Somehow, Renji doubted very much that that was true.

He exited the car carefully, determined not to stagger, determined not to trip as they made (or in his case, wove) their way up the stairs that led to the glass-paneled front doors -- success. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, but stowed the dance of triumph away for later.

Inside, the house was traditionally minimalist yet strikingly modern, simultaneously spartan and luxurious, sleek and expansive. Dark, glossy hardwood floors pooled in the foyer and raced in pitchy rivers down hallways and around corners. Byakuya slipped easily out of his shoes and hung his coat and scarf on a stand shaped like a naked-branched black winter tree, then headed mutely up the spiraling staircase to the left of the genkan. Sensing that he wasn't going to be given the grand tour, Renji stumbled to toe off his sneakers before trailing after him.

He was shown to a spacious bedroom where the stark black-and-white color scheme of the rest of the house was broken up by accents of rich reddish-brown and pale tea green.

"You may sleep here," Byakuya informed him. "The washroom is there, with towels in the linen closet, should you wish to bathe."

The implied inversion of "should" and "you" was painfully clear, and Renji flushed and folded his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to make less obvious his alcohol-sodden sleeve.

He forced out a thank you, digging his toes into the floor.

Byakuya was silent for a long moment, seeming poised to begin a lecture -- but changed his mind and left without another word, shutting the door behind him.

Renji ambled over to the large, low bed.

He grabbed a pillow, held it firmly against his face, took a breath, and--

"DAMN IT!!"

He pounded the mattress with one fist, then switched to pounding his skull. He tore off his hoodie and threw it as hard as he could across the room, where it hit the wall with a disappointingly soft _whump_ and fell to the floor in a dejected little puddle of fleece and beer. His other clothes made it less lonely by increments. Once, Renji nested in the pile himself, having misjudged the force required to extract his left sock from his foot.

He staggered into the bathroom and twisted on the shower as hot as it would go.

When he returned to the bedroom with skin scalded pink, feeling dizzy and almost fully drunk again from the steam, he found that the clothes he had left strewn about the floor had vanished, and in their place, a neatly folded set of red men's pyjamas were waiting for him on the bed. He stared at them, nonplussed, and wondered if the trade had been the work of a hitherto unseen servant, or Kuchiki-sensei himself.

The former, he decided, unable to picture Kuchiki-sensei gathering up even his _own_ dirty laundry.

Still. . .

He picked up the pyjama top and fingered the fabric experimentally. It felt soft. Broken-in. Could these really be. . .?

He held the shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply, catching the powdery, resinlike scent of his teacher that had melted into the fibers beyond the fabric softener.

_Byakuya. . ._

It was then that the wrecking ball of realization made contact with the condemned shell of Renji's brain: he was in Kuchiki-sensei's house -- in a _bedroom_ in Kuchiki-sensei's house -- with a pair of what could only be Kuchiki-sensei's nightclothes laid out for him to wear. All right, so the circumstances that had led to the situation weren't exactly ones of Renji's choosing, but the surreal intimacy of it all was undeniably thrilling.

He dressed with greater care and reverence than he afforded his own best attire, unable to stop himself from breathing in the intoxicating fragrance he had been chasing for the better part of four years, unable to keep from wrapping his arms around his middle to feel the sumptuous silk that had once pressed against the skin he wanted most in the world to be pressing against his own.

Renji's breath caught in his throat. He locked the door, and, just for good measure, locked himself in the still-muggy bathroom. The bed would have been preferable -- _Kuchiki-sensei's_ bed more preferable still -- but he didn't dare risk staining the sheets, or worse, halfway drunk as he still was, falling asleep mid-wank. He could just imagine opening his eyes the next morning to find Byakuya standing over him and his hand still wrapped around his dick, could imagine the flinty disgust in the older man's gaze, and his disdainful drawl: "Have I come at a bad time? Obviously you haven't."

And it was definitely Renji's imagination that appended a "yet" to the end of that sentence, and his imagination that prompted a further enquiry.

_Why yes,_ _Sensei, _thought the redhead in reply to an unreal Byakuya's silent question, _I __**would**__ like you to help me achieve my "full potential". . ._

He worked fast, more out of frustration than any fear of being caught, spitting into his hand a couple of times, allowing the frames of his fiction to roll freely against the backs of his eyelids. Kuchiki-sensei with his upper back pressed hard against the headboard, his curved spine embossing the skin of his stomach with muscle. Kuchiki-sensei's mouth, swollen and parted and panting -- no, _moaning_ -- with Renji's every gliding motion above him.

Kuchiki-sensei's hands in his hair, bone-pale dripping blood-red, and the thrust-parry-riposte of his rapier tongue against Renji's own -- against Renji's _everything._

Perfect white teeth clenched in a hiss of pleasure. The taste of the sweat that would race along the V of Byakuya's hips.

The flexing of his shoulder blades like the beating of invisible wings.

The thought of bruises discoloring those noble knees.

Renji's body tensed, his eyes squeezing shut and his grip on the edge of the counter tightening as he came hard into a wad of toilet tissue, choking back a groan with the much-practiced paranoia of one who'd very rarely been given the luxury of having a room to himself.

He flushed the soiled tissue and waited until his breathing had returned to normal before washing his hands and scrubbing his face with cold water. Groping for a hand towel on the rack, he caught sight of his reflection in the slowly clearing mirror, cheeks bright and eyes bloodshot from alcohol and a joint he'd split with Madarame only a few hours ago.

He shook his head despondently.

"You are so screwed."

* * *

Sometime later, Renji growled into his pillow.

His stomach growled stubbornly back.

It was no use. He never could fall asleep when he was hungry, which had made for a lot of late nights when he was younger. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Renji hauled himself out of bed and headed for the kitchen downstairs, walking as quietly as he could manage -- which, even at his stealthiest, wasn't very.

Kuchiki-sensei's pantry yielded a loaf of white bread, and his fridge a delicatessen's paper package of sliced beef and a jar of fancily-labeled mayonnaise. Good enough.

Renji nosed through the refrigerator's other contents while he ate. Horseradish, spicy mustard, kimchee, soy milk, ginger (both fresh and pickled), red miso paste, half-a-dozen eggs, some leftover rice, half a punnet of matsutake mushrooms, and a wedge of. . .something variegated.

He must, Renji reasoned, eat out a lot. Either that, or his personal chef was on an extended vacation.

Even so, he found Kuchiki-sensei's obvious bachelorhood. . .refreshing. And a little relieving. That the man had once had a wife had somehow not, until now, impressed upon Renji the possibility that he might presently have a girlfriend. God, what would he have done if they had been greeted at the door by some sleepy, haughty little supermodel slip of a thing, dripping with jewels and not much else, casting him an disdainful sneer before demanding the return of her Bya-chan to bed?

Renji shuddered.

Out of habit he rinsed his plate and the knife he'd used for the mayo and popped them both in the empty dishwasher. Then, after a long look up the staircase, he succumbed to curiosity and made for the living room.

A long, low couch with squared-off sides sat a decent distance across from an oversized flat panel television that had been mounted to the wall. Its remote sat on a short table below it, next to a cylindrical vase containing a single red-and-white camellia blossom, and Renji figured it didn't get much use, especially seeing as every other inch of wall space was made up of recessed shelves containing all the books he had studied in his preparation for Byakuya's class, plus a great many more. Jeez. Had Kuchiki-sensei read _all_ of these?

He wandered over to where a compact but obviously state-of-the-art stereo system was neatly tucked between bookends of, well, books. Curious, he pushed the power button, and when its mp3 set-up became apparent, the buttons marked "Shuffle" and "Play."

Immediately the soft, slightly scratchy sound of bells, like a low-quality recording of a music box, began to chime throughout the room. Renji looked around in alarm, but the tune seemed quiet enough -- no need to turn the volume down.

A woman began singing in English, and Renji paid close attention as he struggled to translate her words. _Sleepyhead,_ he caught the last line, _sleepyhead, sleepyhead. . ._

The music pistoned breathily and her voice dropped into a rasp, sinking the words from the realm of his comprehension with it. He glanced around again, and chanced to turn the volume up by degrees.

_I'll. . .watch. . .over you. . .but don't ask me,_ she warned, louder, and Renji frowned -- couldn't this woman pick a pitch? -- but the bass was low, he reasoned, and anyway, Kuchiki-sensei had probably equipped his home with more than decent insulation. . .

_. . .just to make it easier on you. . .__**you are gonna have to find out for yourself**__. . ._

Shit! That was loud! He turned the volume down again and crouched low, pressing his ear against one of the tiny but surprisingly resonant speakers.

_--find out for yourself, you are gonna have to find out for yourself, you are gonna have--_

"What are you doing?"

Renji stilled. A part of his brain pointed at the rest of it and raucously laughed.

So. Screwed.

Slowly, he turned around.

_My. . .dearest. . .scatterheart. . ._

Byakuya stood at the edge of the room, still clad in his evening wear, although his white shirt had been untucked and his tie discarded. He was poker-faced, unsmiling, and obviously waiting for an explanation.

_. . .there is comfort. . .right. . .in the eye. . .of the hurricane. . ._

"Kuchiki-sensei," he croaked. "I-I was just. . ."

_. . .just to make it easier on you. . ._

Mutely, Byakuya came forward, and Renji noticed that his eyes were focused not on him, but on the stereo itself, and someplace else -- someplace very far away.

"This," he murmured, "was Hisana's favorite song."

Oh.

Hell.

_All. . .the. . .hurt. . .in the world. . ._

Renji watched the older man carefully, as one might a sleeping panther in unnervingly close proximity who could wake and pounce at any moment; but Byakuya's expression was unlike any Renji had witnessed him wear before. A tense sadness had crept between his eyes, softening the sharp arches of his brows, and the grim line of his mouth was broken, lips parted as if on the cusp of further speech but not knowing which words to form. He looked so. . ._lost,_ a bare-faced vulnerability so unexpected it stirred in Renji's chest a compassionate ache almost profound in its sudden depth and intensity.

_. . .you know. . .there's nothing I'd love to do more. . .than spare you from that burden. . ._

"Sensei. . ." he whispered before he could stop himself.

The shift was instantaneous.

The repetitive chorus of the song died abruptly as the power button was pushed by a well-manicured finger, and silence entombed both it and the humanity from Byakuya's voice and expression, as if he'd also pulled a plug from his heart.

Renji's eyes strained, but he found himself colorblind once more to the hues of his teacher's emotions, dyslexic to even the few words he had managed to read when the man's book had tumbled from its shelf and fallen ever so briefly open.

"Go to bed, Abarai," Kuchiki-sensei commanded, in a voice crusted with a layer of ice made all the sharper from its having lapsed into a momentary thaw.

". . .yes sir," Renji said, and moved to obey.

He paused only once, a couple of steps away. Byakuya still faced the stereo, statue-still, with not even a slight movement of his shoulders to indicate breath.

It was, Renji decided, an impulsive necessity. He couldn't just _leave_ the man there like that. It simply wasn't in his nature. Someone he cared about was _hurting_ and it was _his_ fault and he had to, just _had_ to reach out and--

Renji's fingertips brushed against the back of Byakuya's hair, stirring the obsidian strands with all the weight of a fallen flower petal, and when he withdrew his hand he balled up his fingers into a fist, as if to trap whatever dark molecules might have gotten caught in the wells of his fingerprints.

* * *

Only when the sound of the guest room door closing reached his ears did the tension in Byakuya's muscles abate. More than that, its withdrawal left him feeling utterly drained, shaky and weak, as if he'd caught a sudden flu.

He certainly made himself sick.

There could be no denying it now, not when the writing had been, quite literally, on the wall, in the form of a hand-shaped shadow thrown by the light of the kitchen behind them. Not after the unmistakable feel of that shadow's source ghosting against the back of his hair, something so unlike the manhandling he endured from Shihouin (pitifully, the only human contact he had experienced over the last five years), something so tentative and tenderhearted he'd had to clamp down on his neglected body's raw, instinctive demand for _more._

Abarai. . ._wanted_ him.

And what was infinitely worse. . .

It hadn't even been a deliberate thought, but his body had betrayed the ghastly truth of his subconscious when a butterfly of anticipation had batted its wings against the walls of his stomach upon hearing Renji thundering about in the kitchen, sending up echoes of domesticity throughout a house that had been privy only to Byakuya's nigh silent, half-dead form of life for the better part of the past half-decade. The boy made enough noise to wake the dead -- enough, even, that the dead had momentarily risen in Byakuya's mind, haunting for a midnight snack as she had so often done in life. How many times had he stumbled upon her standing in front of the refrigerator, wrapped in chilly mist, yukata slipping off one china-white shoulder and tiny toes scratching an invisible itch along the curve of one small, slim calf, while gooseflesh prickled to life all over her deliciously downy form. . .

Byakuya shook his head as if to jar the madness from his mind, for what could be further from his deceased ideal than a six-feet-two, graceless, tanned and tattooed seventeen-year-old _boy?_

Even one who possessed her habits and played her song. Even one with hair as scarlet as her name, and who kept her sister, with her face, entrenched in his heart as firmly as she herself was entrenched in Byakuya's own.

God.

What the hell was he going to do?

_Nothing,_ he told himself sternly, for _lack_ of action in such a situation was surely the only action one _could_ take. There could be no conflict without movement.

Surely.

Surely, because he had not yielded to the sudden impulse he'd had to tilt his head back against that warm, presumptuous hand, to turn toward it and catch it in his own and _feel something_ again_--_

. . .surely, because so too had he failed to cringe away from it.

* * *

_In a place they say is dead__  
In the lake that's like an ocean  
I count about a billion head  
__All the time  
There's a motion  
Palace of the brine_

_I saw the cloning__  
Of the famous family__  
I heard the droning**  
In the shrine****  
Of the sea monkey**  
Palace of the brine. . ._ -- The Pixies, "Palace of the Brine"

* * *

**A/N:** _I feel like I have a lot & nothing to say. Summarily, I was gone, & now I'm back. This is neither on hiatus nor abandoned; just suffering the side effects of Real Life. Also, google revealed nothing about police boxes, so I really have no idea if they're more like help desks with truncheons than the mini-station outpost portrayed here. (I make excuses like that's the first thing I've gotten wrong, hah.) Hisana's song is "Scatterheart" by __Björk__, & yes, Urahara is a Donnie Darko fan. He & Yoruichi are like the Monnitoff & Pomeroy of Seireitei Acad._

_Hinamori would totally be Kitty Farmer to Aizen's Jim Cunningham._

_Yumi would be Sparkle Motion. The whole team.  
_

_Okay, I need to stop. I blame hunger. Thanks for reading; the next chapter'll be up very soon. No, really, I mean it this time -- like, in a matter of hours. Maybe less. :O  
_


	16. Feathered Sacred

**XVI. Feathered Sacred**

* * *

"Favorite food?" Izuru asked, idly tracing the tendons on the back of Gin's hand, pressing down lightly when he came to the impasse of a rubbery vein.

"Hoshigaki."

"Ew."

"Eh? 's wrong with hoshigaki?"

"They look like shriveled, moldy. . ."

"Shriveled, moldy what?"

Izuru felt the color rise in his face. "Nothing. Next question."

Gin smirked. "All right. Blood type?"

They had been playing this game for the past third of the half-hour they'd been awake, its first twenty minutes having been spent. . .well, becoming spent. Again. Sex, Izuru had discovered, felt different in the daylight. Sleepy, sore bodies moved more slowly, almost by requisite making the pleasant, warm delirium of morning into something to be savored, and sometime during his languid, post-coital speculations on what else and where else and how else something so more or less canonical could be experienced, Izuru had realized that, while he felt he could safely say he knew Gin fairly well at this point, he really knew very little _about_ him.

"So ask," Gin had said when he'd voiced this observation.

And so Izuru had.

"A," he said now, drawing a leg up, drawing the instep of his foot along the outside of his boyfriend's left calf.

"Naturally. Mine's B."

"Naturally." He pressed his lips together, thinking. "Mundane, but important: favorite color?"

"Indigo blue. Yours?"

"Lately, silver."

"Awww."

"Ouch!" Izuru winced as his cheeks were pinched a couple of pounds-per-square-inch too hard, and pulled away from the assault. "Good grief. Don't make me have to tell people I fell down the stairs again."

"Nah, be honest -- just tell 'em you like it rough."

"That wouldn't be honest," Izuru pointed out, and was surprised when his voice didn't sound as certain as he'd thought it would -- but _that_ was a can of worms he definitely wasn't ready to open yet, and so he cleared his throat, settled back against Gin's chest, and changed the subject, "Where were you born?"

"Ukyou," replied Gin, "in Kyoto. Ever been overseas?"

"Once, when I was four. My family vacationed in Hawaii. I got stung by a jellyfish on the third day, went into anaphylactic shock and ended up in the hospital. My mother wouldn't let me back in the water for the rest of the trip."

"Poor thing."

"Yeah. I think it put me off tentacle porn for life."

"Hah! Izuru-chan's so dirty-minded this mornin'."

"Hmm, I can't imagine why," Izuru smiled. "How did you meet Aizen-san?"

Gin looked smug. "Picked his pocket."

Izuru glanced at him sidelong. "Bullshit."

"Naw, I'm serious. He was doin' some kinda business in town, an' I saw him strollin' along, obviously not a local, an' so I. . ."

He trailed off, and grew very still.

". . .Gin?" Izuru ventured.

"Huh?"

"You saw that Aizen-san wasn't a local, and so you. . .?"

"I got caught," Gin distantly replied.

"Why'd you try to steal it in the first place?"

With a hard double-blink, the CD of Gin's mind played past its skip and resumed its seamless rotation.

"'cause food tastes better when you don' gotta fish it outta the trash first," he said matter-of-factly. "My old man. . .he liked me ta have somethin' ta show for myself at the end o'the day. Said I was old enough ta feed my own mouth, an' if I couldn't, he'd feed it for me." He made a fist and tapped three soft, puckish punches against the bridge of Izuru's nose. "An' _not -- with -- food._ Believe me, there's worse things than pickin' pockets I could'a been doin' to appease him.

"Anyway," he continued before Izuru could question what those things might have been, "like I said, Sousuke caught me red-handed, _bam!_" He clapped his hands together for effect. "Clamped his hand around my wrist, like he'd known I was comin' even before I did. But he didn't kick my ass or try ta drag me to the nearest police box like other people would'a. 'stead he takes me ta lunch, talks ta me 'bout my old man, about. . .'bout everything, an' then he asks me if I want him ta do somethin' about it."

Izuru waited for the rest of the story. At Gin's ensuing silence, he prompted, "And?"

But Gin only shrugged. "I said yes."

Sensing that that was as much of the story as he was going to get -- for now, at least -- Izuru didn't give chase to the evasion.

"How old were you?" he asked.

Gin stretched languorously.

"Jus' turned nine."

Izuru tried to picture Gin at nine, black-eyed and scrawny and. . .did he smile even then, even battered and picking warm, half-eaten fruit and stale bread out of a trash can? Was that why he smiled now, because he'd grown so accustomed to his eyes being swollen shut?

The thought made Izuru cringe, made him huddle impossibly closer to Gin at seventeen, now well-fed but still rangy, still a little bit feral around the edges, but bruised only by love bites. For the first time, he felt real gratitude towards Aizen, because Gin was here, now, to hug him back.

"Hey!" said the silver-haired boy, sitting up abruptly as if he'd just remembered something important, causing Izuru to fall back against the pillows. "I'm hungry."

The forgotten blond propped himself up on his elbows and took the opportunity to enjoy the view of Gin's naked back, which, despite their extensive intimacy the night before, he had yet to be in a position to properly admire. Like the rest of him, it was flawlessly smooth -- no moles, no freckles, no blemishes of any kind (well, disregarding the hickeys that spotted his front like the rosettes on a snow leopard's coat). Gin had the sort of skin girls went nuts trying to attain, and he, Izuru, had it all to himself.

"Does Ayasegawa-san have room service?" he asked, not really paying attention to his own words, too busy walking his fingers up the bumps of Gin's spine. He wanted to make the back match the front, wanted to nibble and suck and sink his teeth in. . .

"Hmm, he might, but I dunno if I'd trust what whoever's conscious down there might see fit ta-- _gah!_" Gin yelped and flinched forward, his precious back bowing out of reach. "That _tickles!_ I don' think we gotta resort ta cannibalism just yet, Izuru-chan."

"Sorry, you just. . .taste really good," Izuru offered lamely, blushing.

"Like glass?"

Snort. "Definitely _not_ like glass."

Grinning, Gin twisted around and pushed his forehead against Izuru's. "Save me for dessert, then, ne?" he suggested, and delivered a playful nip to his kouhai's nose before bounding out of bed.

Leaving the room to forage meant clothes, and Izuru blushed as he dressed -- there could be no explaining away the wrinkles his clothes had incurred during their time spent crumpled up on the floor. Not that it would be difficult for anyone to put two and two together even if his shirt was freshly pressed, but it seemed so. . ._obnoxious,_ to be wearing the previous evening (and morning, he felt obliged to add) quite literally on his sleeve.

--Well, not _that_ literally, thank goodness, because he really wasn't feeling up to washing his clothes in the bathtub. . .

He also learned that putting _on_ clothing could be almost as sexy as taking it off, when all it did was remind you of why it had been removed in the first place.

Gin seemed to agree, if his arms encircling Izuru's bare waist while the blond was midway through tugging on his shirt was any indication. It was like a game, Izuru thought, like The Ground Is Lava, only they had to be touching each other in some way at all times.

Eventually they made it out the door, hand-in-hand, to descend the staircase and survey the damage like reinforcements arrived too late for the battle.

The potted plant Oomaeda Marechiyo had shoved them into the night before had been upset, and was now a limp green archaeology dig of earth and pottery fragments. Paintings hung askew on the walls, and a marble bust had been. . .edited. . .with a Dali mustache drawn on in probably permanent marker. A coffee table in one room had been smashed to smithereens, while on the sofa behind it, a couple slept stacked and snoring one on top of the other. Other furniture, not all of it plush, had been turned into beds that propped up the still-passed-out like bodies on morgue tables awaiting embalmment. They found Rangiku on a loveseat, curled up around a bottle of something-clear-that-was-not-water, and Gin paused to kiss her cheek and cover her with a blanket (curtain?) he swiped from the oblivious form of Ogidou Harunobu. She murmured appreciatively in her sleep and buried her chin further between the tops of her breasts.

"How on Earth," Izuru marveled, shaking his head in dismay, "is Ayasegawa-san going to explain all of this to his parents?"

"Eh," Gin shrugged, "chances are they'll never know. Ayasegawa-kun knows how ta keep his help helpful. Ooh. . ." He sniffed the air, inhaling deeply. "Smells like we're not the only survivors."

They followed his nose to the kitchen, where a motley group of the semi-conscious -- half the Vizored, their host, and Iba -- had assembled. Shuuhei's brother, still shirtless but now sporting a lacy white maid's apron, stood in front of the stove, working his way through frying a tower of sliced bread.

"Vanilla or orange?" he asked them, then cracked another two eggs into a shallow plate, added some orange extract, and whisked both together with a fork.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Yumichika greeted them from the breakfast bar with lazy cheer, a smudged and seedy- but happy-looking remnant of his former self, still dressed in last night's kimono, an already yellowing bruise ornamenting his jaw like a flower. He waved a hand toward the coffee pot resting on the counter. "I trust you enjoyed your evening?"

Gin smiled and pulled up a seat beside him. "We made the most of it."

Izuru crimsoned, and busied himself with the coffee.

"'ood," Yumi nodded around a wide yawn he daintily covered with the back of his hand. "That's good."

"Ohhh, no, nothing is good," came a melodramatic groan from the hall. It was soon followed by the glowering, squinty-eyed face of the Vizored's lead singer peering around the doorframe. "Nothing is good this morning," he feebly declared. Weirdly, his twangy Kansai drawl was even less pronounced than Gin's in plain speech, and Izuru figured his singing style to be hyperbolic showmanship. "Has anyone seen my pants?"

"Hiyori took 'em off you and gave them to Lisa before they went on some girly errand," the afroed bass player replied from behind his sunglasses, exhibiting a total lack of concern for his bandmate's miserable condition, albeit possibly because he was too caught up in his own -- the fop guitarist from the night before was rubbing his back in a soothing rhythm, up-and-down, up-and-down, with one ring-cluttered hand. "L said somethin' about sailor skirts and the snow and not wanting a bloody icicle growing between her legs."

The singer, along with everyone else in the room, cringed.

". . .she can keep 'em."

He meandered into the kitchen in his boxers, socks and shirt, heading directly for the coffee pot. His hair looked like a haystack had met with an electrical socket, and turned the shadows hooking beneath his eyes into reaping sickles.

Izuru self-consciously smoothed down his own blond forelock, then looked at Gin, who had gone strangely pensive again. Izuru nudged him, but was ignored. The feeling from the night before returned twofold, a sick, heavy tension that felt like he'd been hit in the stomach with a baseball.

"Hey, friend," said Gin, addressing the singer, "you're from Osaka, right?"

"Mmf" was the assent, mumbled around the mouth of a mug. "Good ear. Ayep, Shinji from Shinchi -- Tobita Shinchi, that is, where a red light never means 'stop.'" Despite his wretched state, he mustered up an exaggerated wink.

The fop rolled his eyes. "And as you can see," he ajudged, "it's produced no one more incorrigible."

"That's rich, coming from an okama named _Rose,_" Shinji scoffed. "As if you're any stranger to overkill. Why?" The last word was aimed at Gin. "You been there?"

The silver-haired boy leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "When I was a kid."

"Uh-huh. That district, or just the city?"

"Oh, yes," Yumi deadpanned. "I'm sure Ichimaru-kun was a great frequenter of brothels as a child."

"Sheesh!" Shinji exclaimed, throwing up his hands in exasperated defense, inadvertently sloshing coffee on the floor as his eyes darted between his host and his guitarist. "What's got you girls so bitchy today? Did you both catch Lisa's rag or what?"

Rose regally regarded the fingernails of his free hand. "I'm telling her you said that."

"Do it an' I'll jizz in your conditioning rinse, I ain't even joking."

From the stove, Shuuhei's brother snorted, muttering, "Yeah, like he's never had come in his hair before."

"Well!" Yumi said briskly, clapping his hands together and eliciting sharp winces from Shinji, the bassist and a hitherto-silent Iba. "Who's hungry? Ikkaku?"

"What?" the bald boy barked, entering the kitchen clothed -- barely -- in a woman's white thigh-length robe, a shiner like an eight ball and--

"What the hell is on your head?" Izuru asked before he could stop himself -- or at least word the question with more civility.

"Houzukimaru," Ikkaku answered, reaching up to scratch the small iguana sunning itself on his smooth skull like a scaly green mohawk on the underside of its chin. "Ain't he cute?"

"Ugh," scoffed Yumi. "It's bad enough that its hutch stinks up your room; if that. . ._thing_ shits in this kitchen I will--"

"Relax, Yumichika, he just went."

"Good." And then, "--Wait. Where?"

But Ikkaku was leaning out the doorway and pretending not to hear him.

"Oi, Hisagi! Come get some nosh!"

Yumichika's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Izuru could practically see the exclamation of "Shuu-chan!" building behind his lips.

"Hey, guys," Shuuhei mumbled. He hovered in the threshold for a moment, looking nervous. "Uh, Ayasegawa? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Yumi positively glowed. "But of course, Hisagi-san."

Hisagi-san. . .?

They headed out into the hall. Those in the kitchen allowed for approximately three seconds' worth of exchanged glances before they rushed the doorframe and clustered against it like a double set of four-headed totem poles.

". . .woke up in your room," Shuuhei was saying in a low voice. "And, the thing is, I don't really remember much of. . .well, anything past two a.m. And I woke up with my clothes on, which was a relief, but I. . .I just wanna make sure. . .nothing _happened,_ right?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Yumi's stunned, hurt little voice, "I can't _believe_ you don't remember."

Izuru thought he could actually _hear_ Shuuhei's face blanch.

"So. . .so something _did_ happen?"

More silence.

"Jesus," Shuuhei breathed. ". . .okay, look. I was drunk. I was -- I was fucking _hammered,_ and you should know that I would _never_. . .I mean, just because I let you kiss me--" Four hidden faces lit up with varying levels of surprise, three with barely-stifled amusement, and one with horror. "--that doesn't mean I'm. . .look, I'm not gay, okay?"

"No? You seemed to be having a perfectly good time last night."

"That. . .whatever it was, it wasn't _me._"

"No, I assure you, it was. I have witnesses."

"Witnesses?" The word sounded hollow, doubtless because it came from a gaping mouth. "Who. . .?"

"Oh, everyone."

"Every. . ."

"Yes, they all saw you. You were very. . .hmm, how best to put it? Very _manly. _They were all very impressed."

"Oh fuck."

"Fuck? No. . .no, I don't recall any of that happening, more's the pity. But, as you said, you were quite drunk."

"But. . ." Metaphorical gears clunked against one another in Shuuhei's sleep-sandy head, badly in need of oil. Or at least caffeine. "But you said. . ."

"Yes? Tell me, Hisagi-san, what did I _say?_"

There was, faintly, a ding of arrival as the assembly line between Shuuhei's parietal and temporal lobes completed its cerebral circuit.

"The witnesses were to the fight," he said slowly. "And when I said I wasn't gay, you meant. . ."

"Bright and pleasant. Promoting a feeling of cheer. Full of or showing high-spirited merriment. Yes, Hisagi-san: gay."

"You. . .you _asshole!_" This was spoken at full volume, and had the unfortunate effect of shattering both the quiet and the composure of the eavesdroppers beyond the door. They toppled like bowling pins into the hall, rolling with laughter at Shuuhei's aghast face. Yumichika, by contrast, did not look the least bit surprised.

"Yo, little bro," chortled Kensei, "you got somethin' you wanna tell me?"

"Yeah, I do," Shuuhei snapped. "You're all fucking assholes!"

Ikkaku raised a pointed finger. "Actually, from the sound of things, _you_ are."

"Oh bite me, all of you! --_Ow!_ What the--"

"Mashiro!" Kensei's mirth morphed at breakneck speed into a snarl directed at the green-haired groupie who had wandered up and attached her mouth to Shuuhei's tricep. She was also-- "Put a fucking top on!"

"Why?" she asked, bouncing blithely into the kitchen. "You're in drag, too."

"It's an _apron,_ Mashiro, not a dress!"

She shrugged, popping a piece of vanilla toast in her mouth. "Looks like a jumperskirt to me."

"Fine, then, we'll switch." He tore off the apron and advanced upon her. She shook her head and skipped, to the delight of their audience, out of his reach.

"No good. If all your friends get to see _your_ boobs, there's no reason for me to keep the sight of mine just for you."

"I do not have boobs!"

"Oh please! Those things are almost bigger than mine!"

"_Mashiro!_"

She grabbed at a second stack of toast, stuck out her tongue and raced from the room, pursued by her enraged, lacy, and presumably significant other.

Rose looked at Shuuhei.

"You know, if you _did_ turn out to be gay, I don't believe any of us would blame you."

Shuuhei's palm met his forehead with a resonant slap. He looked accusingly around the room.

"How is it that I sometimes feel so vastly outnumbered by what's supposed to be _ten percent_ of any given population?"

"Birds of a feather. . .?" Ikkaku suggested.

"Uh, you _do_ remember you're _his_ best friend, right?" Shuuhei jerked a thumb at Yumi, who looked proud of himself.

"No way," grunted Iba, lighting a second cigarette from the still-smoldering butt of his first one. He had the air of a person clinging desperately to the crow's nest of a sinking ship. "Madarame just hangs around like a rhino waiting to get picked clean by oxpeckers."

"But does that make their relationship symbiotic," Shinji queried, "or parasitic?"

Izuru frowned. "Isn't being mutually parasitic the same thing as symbiosis?"

He was waved off. "Whatever, Academy-san. Quit tryin' to me look bad."

"As if it's a challenge," Izuru grumbled under his breath.

Gin tilted his head to look at him, intrigued.

"What?" Izuru asked.

"Nothin', nothin'. . ."

Izuru shifted his weight and folded his arms across his chest, decided that looked petulant, and lowered them again. The subject, he thought, was again in urgent need of a change.

"Speaking of percentages," he tried, "has anyone seen Abarai-kun?"

"Eh?" said Ikkaku. "What does Abarai have ta do with--"

"No, Kira-kun is right." Yumichika's skill at sliding, Izuru reflected, would likely put him in the running for the title of best base-stealer in history, were he ever to try his hand at sports. "In fact, come to think of it, I haven't seen Abarai-kun since well before midnight. Or Rukia-chan, for that matter."

Ikkaku shrugged. "So they prob'ly bailed and went back to her place."

"Perhaps," Yumi agreed, but sounded unconvinced -- people didn't _leave_ his parties; they were _evicted_ from them.

"If they did," Iba pointed out, "Sousuke'll shit a brick if he finds out, not to mention this'll probably be the last you see any of us before graduation."

Ikkaku knocked a hand against Yumi's arm. "Where's your phone?"

"No one's calling anybody," the androgyne asserted. "I'll drop you all off at Pure Souls and you can tell Aizen-san I did the same for Abarai-kun and Rukia-chan at her apartment. Then when he turns up we can all take turns with a shinai while his thoughtless skull serves as a piñata. All those in favor?"

A chorus of "hais" filled the kitchen.

"All opposed?"

* * *

Renji sneezed.

Twice.

_Uh-oh. . ._

He'd opened his eyes to sunlight -- the nasty, near-noon kind, far too bright for comfort. The kind of sunlight that brought with it a level of color saturation that didn't allow for any shadows in which one might secrete away the previous night's activities. The kind that showed every embarrassing, corner-bound cobweb and dust mote of mockery that hung around in the air like rubber-necking spectators to one's own humiliation.

He'd opened his eyes, sneezed, groaned, and wondered where he was.

Then he'd remembered.

Then he'd remembered _more_ and groaned again, burying his head in the pillows.

He was there now, wishing he could die, and decided to make the attempt after he peed.

Upon failing to find an electrical cord long enough for a noose, he brushed his teeth -- and tongue -- with the little travel-sized toothbrush and paste laid out hotel-style on a decorative towel on the bathroom counter, and figured he would try his luck with the knives in the kitchen downstairs.

Then he started dreaming.

It was, he realized, kind of an ass-backwards way to go about it, but he could think of no other possible explanation, unless his beer last night had been laced with time-release hallucinogens that were only now beginning to blossom into full effect.

But he blinked -- hard -- and rubbed his eyes, and pinched his wrist, and still Byakuya stood in front of the stove in the Kuchiki kitchen, frying pan handle in one hand, spatula in the other, lifting up the edge of a milky yellow omelet to check its progress.

He was dressed again in jeans (_!_) and heathered cashmere, but more than his clothing it was his feet that captured Renji's attention.

They were bare.

Renji had never been much of a foot-man. Of course, he had never been much of a man-man, either, but his singular fixation with his history professor aside, he'd always thought himself to be fetish-free and quite comfortably conventional: tits, ass, and Byakuya -- but apparently _all_ of Byakuya.

Renji had never before seen a pair of feet so perfectly sculpted, feet that had never so much as tried on a pair of ill-fitting, cheap or second-hand shoes. Hairless, slender, long-toed feet that had practically been _designed_ to stray beneath tables, to follow the lines of someone else's leg up, up, to turn sharply at a knee and push _forward_ with just the right amount of teasing, dexterously curling pressure against--

"Good morning."

"Socks!" Renji yelped in surprise. "I mean, uh," he recovered at the older man's frown, "my socks, and my. . .other clothes--"

"Held all the aromatic appeal of an ashtray. They're in the dryer."

"Oh," said Renji. He nodded. "--Good morning."

With an expert snap of his wrist, Kuchiki-sensei flipped the omelet in the pan sans spatula. Renji's eyebrows raised, impressed.

"You cook?" he asked.

Byakuya gave a noncommittal, one-shouldered shrug. "Apparently."

The redhead rolled his eyes. _Ass._

He padded further into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee in an empty mug set out next to the French press. Kuchiki-sensei eyed him strangely when he dumped a handful of sugar cubes into the mix, but said nothing.

The silence between them was terribly awkward until Byakuya finished with one omelet and began to whip up the eggs for a second one. Imbued with the first-come, first-served habits of an orphanage upbringing, Renji lifted the plate and, when he wasn't immediately reprimanded for the action, brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply the rich, buttery scent of yellow egg there nestled.

A fork rested nearby. He took both over to the long granite bar that stretched the length of the kitchen and hopped atop one of the half-dozen tall, black leather chairs that lined its outer edge, then cut into the omelet with gusto, took a generous bite, chewed and--

"!!"

--froze.

Unfortunately only figuratively.

"That one's mine," Byakuya said mildly as Renji sprang from stool to sink in a single bound, twisted on the cold tap and stuck his tongue under the running water.

"Hay that hooner!" he barked, rubbing with his fingers in an attempt to scour the five-alarm spice off his tongue.

Byakuya turned off the stove and slid the other omelet neatly onto a plate with another fork, then turned off the tap and handed this second breakfast to Renji, who eyed it suspiciously as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"No peppers in this one, right?"

"None," Byakuya confirmed. "Not being familiar with your tastes, I thought cheese would be adequate."

Renji nodded, and tried not to think about the "something variegated" he had seen in the fridge the night before.

"Cheese is good. I. . .like cheese." He took the plate, and Kuchiki-sensei took Renji's empty chair.

And then Kuchiki-sensei began to eat.

With Renji's fork.

If it were someone like, say, Ikkaku, who had as many qualms about sticking his _fingers_ in other people's food as Renji did (that is to say, none whatsoever), or even someone like Sousuke, who, as the only adult in a house full of teenagers swapping anything and everything back and forth, had grown accustomed to not being terribly picky about what went where and with whom unless someone was sick, Renji could have shrugged it off.

But he'd always figured Kuchiki-sensei to be more like Yumichika -- also known as "swipe _one piece_ of sushi from the center of the table with the wrong end of your chopsticks and suffer the whole meal in the trash and my bellyaching for hours until propriety is restored and your forehead is flattened from begging forgiveness on the floor" -- and so he couldn't quite fathom that the older man had simply failed to notice the indirect kiss, like two people drinking from the same side of a single cup. But if Byakuya _had_ noticed, then what the hell did that mean? That Renji had simply misjudged his adherence to etiquette (unlikely), or. . .

"You are supposed to eat _that_ omelet, Renji, in case my meaning was unclear."

_Actually,_ Renji thought as he mechanically seated himself one chair away from his teacher, _it couldn't be any foggier._

And then something happened. Something in his brain rolled over to have its belly scratched.

A more philosophical mind might have called it "the achievement of zen." Renji called it an eerie yet remarkably calm sense of "fuck it."

Things like this didn't happen to people like him. He wasn't lucky like Ikkaku, or have money enough that he didn't need luck, like Yumi. He wasn't even stupid enough, like Kira, to mentally warp the _un_luckiest of things into feeling like the opposite. He was just Renji. He plowed through life horns first and got all the headaches that could possibly result from that approach. He was a little hungover even now.

But here he was, playing out a scene he had pictured at least a thousand times in his head -- not quite his ideal version of it, true, but that it was happening in any context at all seemed to bear witness to the fact that, although he couldn't always see where he was going, nowhere wasn't it. Fate had already done its worst: Kuchiki-sensei had seen him last night as Renji had never intended to be seen, dependent and disgraced, and had still taken him home. There, he'd been caught trespassing a second time, and still Kuchiki-sensei had made him breakfast the morning after.

A negative plus a negative didn't equal a positive, but two multiplied negatives did; and besides, it wasn't as though he could further damage his odds.

So fuck it. He would bark at the moon; if Kuchiki-sensei was an Ozzy fan (and at this point, Renji wouldn't have been fazed to discover he was), he might even listen in awe.

"Rukia called me not long after she got here." The words were difficult to form at first, but they got rolling quickly, like a snowball. "The way she described this place, she made it sound like a palace."

Byakuya lifted an eyebrow. "My humblest apologies for disappointing you," he dryly averred.

"No," Renji said quickly, shaking his head. "That's not it at all. This place great. Better than I pictured, even. I mean, she had me imagining some vast Taj Mahal with, with a marble garage and gold leaf toilet paper."

"The Taj Mahal isn't a palace," the history professor pointed out. "It's a mausoleum."

"Is it? Imagine that. . .anyway, my point is, this place is a lot. . .cozier, I guess, than she made it out to be. It actually feels like a home. A really fuckin' _nice_-- sorry. A really nice home. Classy, but comfortable."

Byakuya was silent for a moment as he sipped his coffee. Then, quietly, almost as if the words were an experiment, ". . .Rukia never thought of this place as her home. That was my doing, I'm afraid. Hisana and I had only been married ten months when she located and adopted Rukia. I was. . .still selfish with her. I wasn't yet prepared to share her with a child of our own, let alone a twelve-year-old stranger. And after she. . ." Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. "To see her face daily reflected in that of her younger sister's. . ."

Holy shit, Renji marveled. Holy shit it was _working!_

He scrambled to fill in his teacher's dot-dot-dot, to force the conversation further, "It pissed you off."

"It. . ." But Byakuya seemed to catch himself, and receded like a tide. "It is none of your concern."

"Of course it's my concern. I love Rukia."

"Do you?"

"Well yeah. She's _my_ sister, too, y'know. Maybe not on paper, but in all the ways that really count."

"Then she is more so yours than mine."

"Maybe." Renji shrugged. "Maybe not."

And if Kuchiki-sensei wanted to know the meaning behind _that_ one, he was going to have to ask.

Renji inwardly rubbed his hands together, congratulating himself on his finesse.

He stopped sometime around the thirty-second mark of Byakuya's unadventurous silence.

Well, if he had learned nothing else by now, it was that the man was harder to get than an on-camera interview with a yeti.

He would try again.

"Sensei. . .why aren't you riding my ass?"

Byakuya looked at him, a frown furrowing his brow, and Renji recognized too late the banana peel that had led to his Freudian slip.

"About last night," he explained with what he hoped was a passable imitation of nonchalance. "Why haven't you said anything? Lectured me, made me write 'I will not drink until I am of age' six hundred times in kanji-only characters. . .?"

"Would you like me to?"

_Ride my ass? Well, not really, but I'd be open to riding yours. . ._

"Not really. But. . .that's it? You're just gonna let me off scot-free?"

Kuchiki-sensei swallowed a bite of omelet with a stoicism that shouldn't have been possible through that much pepper.

"To what point and purpose would I punish you now? You recognize that your actions warrant consequences, and unless you believe that my leniency indicates the beginning of a hitherto absent trend in your life of escaping unscathed all situations in which you may be named a culprit, I would judge your lesson learned."

Renji's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Careful, Sensei. It almost sounds like you have faith in me."

"What indication have I ever given that I do not?"

"Well, there's. . ." Renji hunted through his memories, but it was true: he could recall no specific instance in which Kuchiki Byakuya had outright doubted his potential. "Okay, but come on, even you've gotta admit you've pretty much snubbed me since you've known me."

Byakuya blinked at him, looking genuinely puzzled. "I made you my teacher's aid."

"Well, yeah, but. . .before that." Renji could feel himself losing ground.

"You feel you were treated differently than any of my other students?"

"Well, no," Renji admitted. "But that's just it. You're an equal opportunity ignorer."

"Pray tell, what specific forms of acknowledgment ought I be dispensing? I understand Urahara-sensei rewards his top testers with candy bars; should I begin rewarding good performances with treats?"

"No, that's--"

"I teach history, Renji, not obedience school. If you wish to be regarded as a hound to be trained and not a person fully capable of recognizing and pursuing knowledge as its own reward, then I suggest you look elsewhere."

"I don't--"

"There comes a point in every young person's life when acting with maturity must become a conscious decision for the betterment of oneself, and not a _trick_ performed for the sake of instant gratification. With adulthood comes the freedom of choice, one of the most valuable commodities any man can possess. I give my pupils the option to practice their authenticity. Whether or not they act upon it is entirely up to them. You of all people ought to find that a relatable sentiment."

"But you're _you!_" Renji finally exploded. "Do you. . .do you have any idea what that means to someone like _me?_ You wanna talk pets? Well I _am_ the eternal underdog! I've always had to fight twice as hard to accomplish the same stuff as everyone else, and you? You were _born_ with that stuff. You were a winner and you never even had to run the race, an' lemme tell you, freedom of choice looks a lot different when that choice is between stealing and eating versus veal or lamb. So yeah, sometimes a candy bar can be a real fuckin' luxury, and if it's the only food you've had in a week, you're gonna remember the face of the asshole who gave it to you, because when you're struggling, you_ have_ to be able to remember that somebody gives a shit, 'cause otherwise, why should _you?_"

"Personal pride," Byakuya offered. "The unwillingness to perpetuate a poor example."

"Okay, so when you're stretched to the limits of your means, and no one comes to your aid, then what happens? You bite off your own nose to spite everyone else's face? Name the last one-man revolution that actually worked. You can't always do everything alone -- that's the point of _people._ And while trusting that they'll act with integrity is a real noble idea, you can't just give a guy a What without a worthwhile Why. Martyrs don't die for causes that never gave them hope."

"And you are what, the Yoshida Shoin of Seireitei Academy, year twelve?"

Renji glowered at him. "You're missing the point on purpose, aren't you?"

"Oh, I understand your point. I simply find it lacks perspective. Even if every situation can be made into a metaphorical battle, not every outcome will have been worth the fight. Neither do martyrs often advocate Pyrrhic victories."

"Yeah yeah," Renji waved him off. "Shades of gray, I get all that. But just because one man's ash looks like another man's charcoal doesn't mean meat'll cook over both. One of 'em's still gotta be--"

"Wrong," Byakuya finished, sounding none too impressed with his T.A.'s discourse. "But have you not flourished, Renji, under my. . .erroneous tutelage?"

_I have been charred to a fucking crisp by you, you have burned your way into my __**bones**__--_

"Oh, yeah," Renji shrugged with an ease he did not actually feel. "Truth is, I decided to kill myself for you a long time ago. But I will _always_ defend a person's right to candy bars."

He didn't even try to hide that one. Didn't try to turn it innocent with clarification. It felt like testing the water with a cannonball dive instead of a toe, but. . .fuck it.

Byakuya did indeed look momentarily alarmed, or. . .actually, he looked kind of _angry,_ and Renji realized too late that making light of death in conversation with a widower was less an act of fuck it, and more one that was very insensitively fucked up.

And sure enough, the bitterness that colored Byakuya's tongue wasn't only owing to the black coffee he'd been drinking when he said, "Alas, it is the fatal flaw of all educators that they may only successfully teach what they know."

_Well done, Abarai. Way to cook your own goose._

But Renji also managed to pinpoint, then, the origins of why his teacher's instructive doctrine had sounded so much like a recitation: it was the knee-jerk reaction of one who had too often been called upon to explain himself. One whose true character had been denied in favor of a caricature as prone to discrimination as Renji's own underprivileged pigeonhole. One who had gone against the grain of what he himself had been taught, and continued to pay heavily for it.

A dead wife. The scorn of her sister, and very likely that of his own family.

_But. . .if Kuchiki-sensei's so rich, then why does he teach here?_

The answer to Kira's question now seemed pathetically simple: because he chose to. Because he _could,_ and he wanted to.

Because in doing so, something had once given him hope. The exertion of his personal freedom, of his right to choose the path of his own life, even if he preferred dirt to pavement.

But it had been a dead end decision, hadn't it? She was gone, and all he had left now was the mindless execution of tasks he had set for himself when they had still held meaning.

Renji had been so intent on sniffing out the man's true self, he hadn't ever opened his eyes to the fact that it had always been on display.

"Come on, Sensei," Renji gentled, feeling the omelets' eggshells crackling underfoot even as he sat with his legs swinging in the air. "Don't be. . ." He caught Byakuya's warning look, and knew he was in no position to be posing even the most plaintive of orders. "You know I didn't mean it like that. I don't even know what I'm saying half the time, I just let my mouth hang open and watch the wind make my gums flap. It's idiotic, I know, but. . ."

Byakuya frowned at him and muttered, almost to himself, "Why do you so incessantly sell yourself short?"

The redhead shrugged and scratched at the side of his nose. "I dunno. I guess small numbers always look a lot bigger when you're born into poverty."

"It is foolish to value one's true worth as equal to one's gross annual income."

Renji noisily slurped down the last of the sugary sludge at the bottom of his coffee cup in an effort to further lighten the mood.

"Yep," he agreed, smacking his lips. "See? Idiotic."

Kuchiki-sensei shook his head and exhaled a heavy -- one might say disgusted -- breath through his nose. He stood and collected their empty plates and placed them in the sink, and Renji got the sense that something, at some point, had taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque, wherever that was.

"Your clothes should be dry by now," Byakuya told him. "After you've dressed, I will take you to Rukia's apartment."

"Wait!" said Renji.

Byakuya looked at him, and he wrung his brains for procrastination material.

"What. . .what about that dojo you told me about?"

* * *

Byakuya flipped a switch on the wall to his right, and Renji whistled lowly.

"_Nice,_" he appraised, stepping into a room easily sixteen tatami mats in size. The far wall was lined completely with perfectly flat and spotless mirrors. In the sword rack to his left, the bamboo shinai and bokken shone like gold.

He looked briefly to Byakuya for approval before selecting one and lifting it free, testing its weight in his hands.

"How often do you train?" he asked, holding the shinai up close, examining the grain of its wood and admiring the quality of its leather hilt.

"Whenever I feel so inclined."

"Okay, when was the _last_ time you trained?"

"The day before yesterday."

"Really. . ." Renji murmured under his breath, then turned and tossed the weapon to his teacher. "Think fast, Sensei!"

Byakuya caught it automatically, scowling.

"Renji, that is not--"

"You challenged me to a duel, remember?" He tugged off his pyjama top and folded it as neatly as he could manage before placing it on the floor.

Byakuya only stared at him.

"Come on, Sensei," Renji persisted. "Don't punk out on me now. We don't even have to do full bogu, just skins and swords."

The history professor hesitated, then leaned his shinai against the wall and reached for the hem of his sweater.

Renji regretted abruptly his suggestion that they spar sans armor -- more specifically, sans groin-shielding tare.

_Think unsexy thoughts,_ he commanded his brain. Both of them. _Scrubbing toilets. Sentaagai. Iba. Iba dressed in sentaagai sitting on a toilet I'll later have to scrub._

Thankfully, it worked. He had to gulp to force down a heave, but it worked. Then he had to gulp again.

Kuchiki-sensei's naked torso was, predictably, absolutely goddamn beautiful. It conjured up allusions to almost all the bullet points on Renji's ready-made list of Perfect Things That Could Be Metaphorically Applied to Kuchiki Byakuya, many of which could be found in museums, under or behind glass, or in the sky at night, preceded by such monthly titles as Dragon or Lotus, White or Bitter or Hungry Ghost. He was lean and hard and pale and smooth and--

_Iba dressed in sentaagai! Iba dressed in sentaagai!_

"Renji. . ."

"Ngh?"

"I confess, I have always wondered. . .why the tattoos?"

"The what?" Renji shook himself. "Oh." He looked down at his chest, where the tribal design that interlocked across his brow, neck and arms was still but a hollow outline. "They're, uh. . .promises. Insurance policies."

"Indemnifying what?"

"I'm the eternal underdog, remember? I never said that was something I resented or wasn't proud of." He gestured broadly at his person. "These make sure I'll never lose that. They make sure I'll never be able to 'pass' for ordinary or get lazy or cut myself any slack, 'cause no one else has and no one's ever gonna. Everything I accomplish, I do so in spite of my upbringing, and I want everyone else to know that, too. And one day, when I'm the CEO of my own company, every person I meet'll know I must've had to fight harder than anyone else to get there. They won't be able to deny I earned it. So every time I achieve something I've really been busting my ass for, I expand the design, to reward myself and to make sure I have to work even harder next time.

"Plus," he shrugged, grinning lopsidedly, "it's kind of a half-assed pact me and the guys have as, y'know, the school roughnecks. I got mine first, but Madarame liked the idea of permanently spitting in the face of the establishment so much he got his eyes done. Then Iba's yanki ass wanted in on it, but he fed us some crap about disappointing his mother and got his put on his back. Hisagi-senpai pu-- . . .chickened out at the last minute and got his eyebrow pierced instead, but at least it's _something_. Oh, and Yumi likes to pretend his makeup makes him part of the club when he's feeling particularly butch, but we only humor him because he's insufferable when he sulks."

Byakuya nodded in understanding, although he looked only politely interested. Whatever. As long as he was still looking.

"And their. . ._specific_ meanings?" he asked -- idly or warily, Renji couldn't quite tell.

The redhead dragged two fingers across his forehead. "This is my acceptance into Pure Souls." He encircled his throat with one hand, pressing thumb and forefinger against the lightning bolts striking their way down his neck. "These are for the first time I brought home a perfect score on a test. Sousuke even made taiyaki for dinner." He rolled his eyes but smiled at the memory, then moved on to his arms. "My second and third years at the Academy, one stripe for every class I aced. And this," Renji laid a hand on his chest, over his heart, "is for you. Got it right after school the day A.P. History showed up on my revised schedule. Now I'm your T.A., it can be filled in, soon as I have the cash to do it. Probably a couple weeks after break."

But if this revelation pleased him, Kuchiki-sensei did not show it.

"If you expect me to feel flattered, Renji--"

"Not at all," Renji cut him off. "But you _did_ ask."

Byakuya made an indifferent noise in the back of his throat, then picked up his shinai with, Renji sensed, a resoluteness he hadn't previously possessed.

"Shall we?"

"Sure thing. And after I've defeated you, I've got a question of my own I'd like answered."

"Your unwarranted overconfidence, Abarai, is even less becoming than your body art."

_Ouch. _All right, so Kuchiki-sensei was obviously more competitive than he let on. Renji's grip on his shinai tightened. He muttered, "We'll see how unwarranted it is when I've driven you to your knees. . ."

He bowed and crouched down into son-kyo position. Byakuya did the same, and began the match with a low, formal "Hajime."

In unison they rose, although neither immediately attacked. For a moment they circled one another, gaging distance and height, judging the solidity of the other person's stance.

The tone of the match was set in two simple moves: Renji struck first with a kiai that, with the natural depth of his voice, had thrown more than one opponent off-balance with its guttural strength. He delivered a hard, quick downward slice, a warm-up blow more than anything else, a demonstration of his own power intended to mentally intimidate rather than physically subdue.

Kuchiki-sensei deflected it easily, angling his shinai in such a way that the hit slid ineffectually off to one side.

Both were breathing hard and sweating within minutes. More than once, Renji wished he had a hair tie handy, but he stopped irritatedly pushing back with his shoulders the red strands that stuck to the sides of his face when he noticed Kuchiki-sensei didn't seem to be in the least distracted by his own. The older man was absolutely focused on the match at hand, and he was good enough that Renji could not afford to be any less so. Byakuya's fighting style was economical, composed of swift, sure movements that expended a minimum of effort -- and he was _fast,_ able to dodge and strike with almost astounding rapidity. Renji's own style was much more demanding, but where Kuchiki-sensei was quick, the redhead was strong. He was capable of absorbing a great deal of force, and his greatest advantage against his teacher's speed was the brief split-seconds Kuchiki-sensei needed to recover his inertia from having hit what basically amounted to a brick wall of Abarai.

His second-greatest advantage was his big, fat mouth.

"Is that all you got, Sensei? Whaddaya call it, Mosquito Style?"

It wasn't really a weapon he consciously used. In fact, it was more like a side-effect, or a sickness. Like an acute case of verbal dyssentary.

"Do I even need a sword? Should I just go get some bug spray?"

Definitely something related to Tourette's Syndrome.

"Maybe one of those little zappy lights?"

Or mental retardation.

"So tell me, if you treat all your students like drones, does that make you the Queen Bee?"

The problem with a learning curve is that it must eventually plateau, or reach a drop-off point.

"Ow! Hey! Easy, Sensei -- no armor, remember?"

Likewise, patience has a ceiling.

"_Ow!_ Son of a--"

Also, insects,

"Sensei--"

when agitated,

"What the--"

tend to swarm.

"Ow, ow, _ow! _Shit!"

Six hits in rapid succession forced him halfway across the dojo. The change in location should have made the following ones easier to block, but it didn't. Somehow, Kuchiki-sensei had managed to corner him in a clearing. The blows rained down on all sides, sharp little taps that twinged like wasp stings on Renji's arms and legs, and he couldn't stop them all. Hell, he couldn't even get a fix on the wooden blade that was causing them -- it was like being caught in a teeming flurry of splinters. He ducked, and Kuchiki-sensei was already there with a blow to his shin. He jumped, and his forearm echoed with the pain of a hit to his elbow that _should_ have gone whizzing beneath his feet. He feinted--

--and fainted.

Or at least became very suddenly, intimately acquainted with the floor, his vision blotted out with stars, following a hard crack against his right temple.

It took a few moments for the murky cloud of shock and pain to dissipate, and when it did he found himself being helped to his knees by strong but hesitant hands. His eyes watered fiercely when he opened them, but even through their automatic tears he could clearly see Kuchiki-sensei's face looking more deeply confused and horrified than if Urahara-sensei had bounded into the dojo wearing a Domo-kun suit and professing his undying love.

"Renji-- I am sorry, I did not mean. . ."

Renji smiled weakly. "Like hell you didn't."

Byakuya's hands grew very still against Renji's shoulders, like a pair of turtledoves poised for takeoff, but they fluttered only a few inches before landing again upon Renji's own hand that covered his injury.

"Here," the older man murmured, "let me, let me see. . ."

He peeled the heel of Renji's palm away from the wound, which seemed to throb all the harder at the sudden absence of pressure against it. Renji hissed and felt something tickle the side of his face. He looked down at his hand, and saw blood. Great. Couldn't he go _two weeks_ without incurring some kind of cranial damage. . .?

"Renji, look at me."

Of all the tasks Kuchiki-sensei had ever assigned him, this was by far the easiest. Mahogany latched onto pewter. He could see, Renji thought, his own face there, like a reflection in a silver-backed mirror.

Byakuya shaded one of the redhead's eyes, then the other, testing them against the light.

"Um. Peek-a-boo?" Renji tried, and was frowned at.

"Your pupils are evenly dilated and responsive. Do you feel at all ill? Drowsy?"

"Yeah, all morning."

The frown deepened.

"A blow to the head is no laughing matter, Renji."

"You're telling me."

An abashed flush rose on Kuchiki-sensei's cheeks. "Any ringing in your ears? Neck pain? Headache?"

"You just used my head for batting practice with a meter of bamboo; yes, there's a lingering sensation. But I've got a thick skull, and anyway, I know what a concussion feels like. Trust me, I'm fine."

"You are bleeding."

Renji absently wiped again at his wound. "Yeah, well, it was worth it."

"Worth it. . .?"

"I got you on your knees, didn't I?"

Byakuya stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Then he stood.

"Oh, now that's just plain _childish,_ Sen--"

"Shut up, Renji."

Renji glowered indignantly at his teacher's back as Kuchiki-sensei strode past him, heading for the rear of the dojo.

He took a white box emblazoned with a red cross from the wall, returned, and knelt once more.

_Oh._

Renji reddened, feeling foolish. Byakuya tore open a sterile packet containing an antiseptic wipe and began to gently but thoroughly clean the blood from his pupil's face.

"Tss!" Renji flinched as the cold, moist fabric made contact with the cut on his temple. "Stuff stings. . .but I guess I deserve it, for egging you on the way I did."

He heard Kuchiki-sensei breathe in deeply, felt him exhale slowly, his breath cool against Renji's damp cheek.

"No, Renji," the older man quietly admitted. "You don't deserve it. I should not have allowed myself to be carried away."

"Yeah. . .I guess we both did. I didn't know you would take me so seriously."

Kuchiki-sensei set the wipe aside in its wrapper and opened a sterile gauze pad, which he instructed Renji to press against his temple. Burnished eyes watched as elegant fingers, one of them stained on one side of its second knuckle with his blood, rifled through the first aid kit's bandage box.

"Heh. Kinda weird, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"You an' me, sittin' here. I mean, aside from official class stuff and, like, five sentences at the festival -- sorry for ditching you there, by the way; something came up that was kind of. . .imperative -- but aside from that, we've never actually _talked_ before. Now in the past, what, fifteen hours? We've conversed, argued, philosophized, eaten together, you beat the crap outta me. . ."

Another package was ripped open, and then Byakuya's hand was on Renji's wrist, lowering his arm. Renji felt ointment being lightly dabbed against his cut, and then Kuchiki-sensei's hands on his face, their warm, callused palms bracing against his cheek and brow as the taciturn man arranged a butterfly strip to suture the wound.

". . .it's been nice," Renji quietly continued. "Well, I could've done without _this_ specifically, but the rest of it. . .it was so much easier than I thought it would be. Admit it, we're not a bad match. . .are we?"

Byakuya's hands lowered, and Renji turned to look at him.

Kuchiki-sensei's expression was. . ._fiercely_ passive, Renji observed. Like "a little too quiet" or "don't look down."

Their faces were very, very close.

"Renji, I. . ." That bow-shaped mouth untied with the words, unwrapped itself like a present.

Renji's heart throbbed.

_Fuck it._

He felt Byakuya stop breathing the instant their lips touched, a hot assault of forceful yearning against yielding, pliable stillness. He held the kiss for one beat, two, and tried not to listen for the clatter of the other shoe as it hit the floor.

_Please, Yumi,_ he inwardly begged,_ please be right about him. . ._

He couldn't move. He couldn't stomach the thought of opening his eyes and finding disgust waiting for him in the gray gaze whose color made him wish for stormy weather every day, and so he stayed there, hovering, holding his breath as he felt Byakuya's begin again, coming fast and shallow against his face.

"Renji. . ."

No -- no, he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't hear it: he'd die.

He surged forward, trapping Kuchiki-sensei's words with a second kiss, and. . .

. . .and there was a reciprocating pressure this time -- slight, but unmistakably there.

Oh holy God.

Oh Buddha, oh Shiva, oh Amun-fucking-_Ra._

Renji accepted the proffered inch and hurtled headlong towards the nearest mile marker, his heart singing, all diffidence crushed under the sudden avalanche of years of dogged, indefatigable conquest. He leaned in, taking hold of Kuchiki-sensei's wrists to brace himself, feeling Kuchiki-sensei's pulse pound beneath his encircling fingers as they kissed, hard and deep, tongues sour with the aftertaste of coffee sweeping over clean, smooth teeth.

The room -- no, Renji's _world_ -- shifted, spinning sinistrally, as if the universe had reorganized itself around a focal point of shadow-black hair, alabastrine skin, a moist and supple mouth. It was as if Renji's every nerve ending was spiked, was raised like hackles -- but unquestionably _not_ in anger.

It was a little alarming, where "a little" was comparable to "downright," and "alarming" could be freely interchanged with "terrifying."

He had kissed before -- plenty of girls, in one-night party hook-ups and a few awkward, short-lived schoolyard "relationships" -- and they'd all been, he'd thought, pretty damn nice; but none of them, not a single one, had ever felt like _this._ They hadn't even come close, and he knew, with one hundred percent certainty, that it wasn't because Kuchiki-sensei was a guy.

None of them had ever meant this much.

For all Renji's dreaming -- and oh, this man had come to embody every possible form his dreams could take -- the concept, the very _idea_ that he would get this far, accomplish this much, had always seemed so agonizingly distant. He hadn't been -- he _wasn't_ -- prepared for it. These feelings. . ._this_ feeling, that had spent so long accumulating and condensing inside of him. . .

It ignited like a supernova in thermal runaway.

Like a stellar black hole, it consumed.

Renji's hands tightened as his mouth moved south, over that perfect fucking jawline, that smooth white neck beneath which Byakuya's breath rushed like the ravenous gasps of a drowning man.

"Renji, stop this," he panted, warring with instinct against the angle of his arching back.

"No."

"Renji. . ."

The boy in question dragged his teeth over the soft lobe of Byakuya's left ear, and his name was thinned into the most erotic sigh he had ever heard.

Renji groaned softly, "Christ, Sensei. . .d'you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

"Yes," Byakuya choked. "Yes. . .Renji, stop. --I said _stop!_"

"_No!_" Renji shouted. He lurched forward without thinking, causing Byakuya to tumble backward to the floor. Renji followed, crouching, pinning him there, and as he stared down into the older man's pink-cheeked, half-panicked and half-seething face, he noticed, for the very first time, that he was bigger than his teacher.

"Release me," Byakuya ordered, his arms straining against his pupil's grip on his wrists.

Renji ignored him. "Tell me why," he demanded.

"Because this cannot happen!"

Renji shook his head. "Not that. When I told you I'd already decided to kill myself for you, why didn't you ask me what I meant by that?"

It didn't seem possible that there could be enough room in Kuchiki-sensei's narrowed eyes to hold the amount of contempt Renji thought he saw there.

"Because I did not care for the answer."

"Because you thought it was gonna be this?"

Byakuya's scowl sharpened, and he responded without directly replying, "And was I wrong in that assumption?"

"Yeah," said Renji, "you were. You know who that asshole is who I remember, that one who gave a damn? It's _you,_ you arrogant bastard! I watched you give Rukia the whole fucking chocolate factory, and I hated you for it even as I was happy for her, and I haven't been able to take my eyes off you since. _That's_ why."

He didn't wait for the words to sink in before continuing, "But I've seen you now, Sensei -- I mean _really_ seen you. I've noticed every doctor's appointment you make for her -- she bitches about 'em enough, so I ought'a. A check-up every three months, because despite everything, you still give a damn; because you're terrified of losing _her,_ too, even if neither of you will admit it. She's not a debt you're trying to repay -- she's a part of the person you loved, and I can't compete with that. You can't _surpass _devotion. I used to envy you for your money and everything it could give her, but now all I can see is that we're two sides of the same hopeless goddamn coin. We've just both given ourselves up for dead in different ways."

"You are _seventeen,_" Byakuya hissed. "What can you possibly know of--"

"I'm a fucking _orphan!_" Renji reminded him. "You think I don't know what it is to be abandoned? How much it fucking twists like a jagged knife in your heart to know that you weren't enough of an incentive for someone who was supposed to love you to stick around, no matter what?"

"Hisana was _sick._"

"Yeah, she was, but don't try to pretend there isn't a part of you that's pissed off she didn't get better -- that she didn't fight hard enough to be able to stay with you--"

"Enough! How _dare_ you, you ignorant, insolent _child--_"

"Child? Really? Because according to you, seventeen's plenty old enough to make a mature decision. Freedom of choice, right, Sensei? Isn't it just as important that we have the freedom to choose wrongly?"

"Do not put words in my mouth, especially after warping their meaning to suit your. . ."

"My what? My _tricks?_" Byakuya's breath hitched as Renji forced one of his hands against his groin. "Does this feel inauthentic to you, _Kuchiki Byakuya?_ Three and a half _years_ of waiting for _instant gratification? _I'm in love with you, you ass! And I'm _here_ and _you are heaven._ Don't you know what that means?"

He did. Renji could see it in his face that Byakuya did know, even if he didn't want to. Even if it was tearing him apart inside to know. His eyes had widened at that word -- _love_ -- and frankly, so had Renji's. He hadn't intended to say it, hadn't ever even _thought_ it before, but it had slipped the chain of his mouth and raced away at the always-startling speed of truth, and now he could only hope -- pray -- that it would heal on command.

"Renji, listen to me. This cannot happen. I am your teacher. It would be an. . .an _abhorrent_ abuse of my power over you--"

"It's too late for that now," Renji argued, struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice, already uncomfortable with how far he had had to _push_ things. If Byakuya said no again, he would have no choice but to comply, aware that the line he was drawing between giving the man no way out of acknowledging the validity of his feelings and actually _forcing_ him to completely accept them could be construed as being exceedingly fine, indeed. "You can't decide that on your own. You can't just pretend that you didn't kiss me back."

A pained, grieving look dashed across Kuchiki-sensei's features, but not quickly enough that it had gone unseen.

"Be that as it may. . ." Byakuya's voice was steady, but scratchy, brittle words flaking from a parched throat.

Renji sighed and closed his eyes and let his forehead drop, defeated, against one pale, overheated shoulder.

". . .I finish at the Academy at the end of April," he said softly. "Unless you fail me for this."

"No," Byakuya breathed. "This is. . .inapplicable to any coursework I have assigned."

A tiny smile pulsed and faded on Renji's mouth. "If I come to you then. . ." he trailed off, the question asking itself in the silence.

"You will still be seventeen," was its answer.

"I'll be eighteen in nine months."

"That is a long time, Renji. Many things may happen between now and then."

"But we won't."

". . .no," Byakuya murmured, but there was an edge to his voice that razored it into something that sounded almost like regret -- or doubt.

Renji blinked, and felt his eyelashes brush against his teacher's skin. "One more question, Sensei?"

"What is it, Renji?"

He lifted his head to meet Byakuya's gaze, his body sinking in stages until it rested flush against the older man's, whose hands and legs, whose stomach and shoulders and, Renji imagined, every fiber of his being was shaking with fear, revulsion, and above all, the effort of his own self-denial.

". . .you know how hard you're trembling, right?"

Something visibly collapsed in Byakuya's eyes before he could close them. A harsh gasp, like the precursor to a sob, rasped along his throat.

"Sensei. . .?"

He shook his head. "Do not call me that."

"But--"

"_Do not,_" he snapped, then opened his eyes to stare intensely -- _beseechingly_ -- into Renji's own. His breathing was fast. His voice was rough. ". . .do not make this worse."

"Byakuy--"

The final vowel was sucked into Renji's lungs with a sharp intake of air as Kuchiki-sensei's mouth met his in the first in a series of wet, hungry kisses, their duration quick but deep, as though the history professor was trying to pull away and devour him at the same time. Renji's left hand released Byakuya's wrist to fist in raven locks, holding his idol's face to his, not letting him escape, not letting him take any of it back.

It was nothing like the seduction Renji had imagined, wherein clothing was removed piece by piece, unveiling feasts of skin for eyes, and they lapsed into a refined rhythm of give-and-take sensuality and the drawing out of pleasure until its undeniable completion. This was simply _take,_ distilled to its most potent, unadulterated form. This was blind desire, tightly shut eyes and _can'tstop,_ not even for clothes, not even for air. This was _it'sbeensolong_ and _it'sokayit'sokayI'vegotyou_ and_ holdon, holdonbutpleasepleasedon'tholdback._ They were a tangle of lips and limbs, of hot, slick skin and still-clothed grinding hips, unwilling or unable to break apart even to ease the pressure rapidly building within the tight confines of denim and silk. They were clinging and clutching and gripping and _moving_ and oh, God, he smelled so good, he felt so good, the best, even like this, quaking with shame and need, hating himself and maybe even hating Renji for doing this to him, but by God they were doing it and it could never, ever be undone.

* * *

_And it's your heart  
__That's so wrong  
__Mistaken  
__You'll never know  
Your __**feathered sacred**__ self_

_But you can't deny how I feel  
And you can't decide for me. . ._ -- Portishead, "Elysium"

* * *

**A/N:** _This chapter's theme song was almost "Because I Want You Too" by Placebo, but I wanted to aim for a little lyrical variety. "Drag" was also a contender. It was mostly written to the Cure (again -- what IS it with me about those two bands & ByaRen/RenBya?), so really I'm just glad it didn't end all Wedding Singer, "somebody kill me" style, especially with how many rewrites it underwent. Every time I thought it was finished, I'd read over it and find something else to add. Ai ya. x.x_

_Next is, I believe, Gin Gets Quantified -- or at least plays along whilst inwardly entertaining thoughts of fava beans & a big Amarone._

_As always, dear lecteurs, merci beaucoup.  
_


	17. Just a Minor Operation

**XVII. Just a Minor Operation**

* * *

On the fifth of January, Kotetsu Isane hugged herself tightly as she paced the length of the room she shared with Rangiku, breathing deeply, trying to calm the tight, fluttery feeling in her chest.

She could do this. Sousuke-san had said she could do this.

And yet. . .

She swallowed and worried hard at her bottom lip with her teeth, unable to keep from thinking about the long (dizzyingly long) stretches of distance between Pure Souls and Kuja Station, the maze-like route of the train itself, and between Dangai Station to Ushouda-sensei's office in downtown Rukongai; knowing that each step would be like a space walk, and she an astronaut without a tether to the safety of the shuttle.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, whimpering.

From the window, her roommate exhaled a dense cloud of smoke and let the rain sizzle out the last of her cigarette before dropping the dog end into an empty Melon Milk can on the window sill.

"Isane. . .?"

The silver-haired girl only shook her head and buried her face in her hands, until the scent of stale smoke grew strong immediately in front of her. Cool hands came to rest on her wool-stockinged knees, and she peeked through her fingers to meet Rangiku's sympathetic, ice-blue eyes.

"I'm being ridiculous," she acknowledged. "I know that. I just. . ." She sighed heavily. "It doesn't seem to make any difference. How could Sousuke-san forget he'd scheduled a three p.m. conference call today of all days?"

Rangiku had no answer for that. It was unlike their guardian to overlook _anything._

"You won't be _completely_ alone," she pointed out. "Gin will be with you."

"Oh, that's comforting!"

"He can be."

"With you, maybe."

"And Kira-chan. Come on, you don't think either of us would like him if he was really so bad, do you? We're both so wonderful!"

A small, watery smile twitched on Isane's mouth. "He scares me," she admitted.

"Everything scares you. That's why _you_ have to fly over the cuckoo's nest while _I_ read magazines and eat cookies in your bed. The extra-crumbly kind."

"Please not chocolate chip. Kiyone still teases me about the stains I woke up with the last time."

"Shortbread," Rangiku grinned, but her smile waned when the other girl's eyes dropped. "Do you want me to call Shuuhei and ask him to drive you?"

"No," Isane said quickly. "Please don't trouble Hisagi-san. I. . .I have to learn how to do things like this sooner or later, right?"

"You do."

"It just. . ." She felt her chin indent, felt the backs of her eyes cloud with the lacrimal ache she had been battling for the better part of the day. "It feels so unfair."

"Isane. . ."

The girl in question blinked, finding her face gently cupped in the blonde's soft hands. Rangiku peered up at her through eyelashes thick with mascara and dusted with pale, shimmery pink shadow. Warm thumbs caressed Isane's heating cheeks, wiping at invisible tears.

"R. . .Rangiku-san?"

Blue eyes flickered over Isane's face, and a painted mouth hovered on a suspended moment above Isane's own.

"Rangiku-san, wh-what. . ."

Rangiku moved quickly, rising up as if caught in a sudden gust, and her lips drifted down to land snowfall-soft just above Isane's hairline.

"Don't worry about it," she said, her voice as casually buoyant as ever, if perhaps an octave too high. "Everything will be fine. _You'll_ be fine. Or do I have to tickle you until you believe me?"

"N-no, that's--"

Both girls jumped, startled, at a sudden, sharp knock on the doorframe. They turned to find Gin loitering in the threshold. His smile looked halfway melted and small.

"Ya ready?" he asked.

"H-hai," Isane stammered. "I'll be right down."

Gin pushed off from the doorframe and left without replying, and Rangiku. . .

Rangiku pushed off from the floor and returned to her window seat, lighting another cigarette, sitting between puffs with her mouth pressed against her palm as if fearful of what it might do unguarded.

* * *

Gin galloped down the stairs, jumping the last five to land as hard and loudly as he could on the ground floor before swerving into the library.

"I'm leavin'," he announced.

From a table piled high with dictionaries and volumes of poetry, Izuru and Hinamori looked up.

Gin mentally tore the image to shreds. Goddamn Sousuke. He'd put that little brat up to this, Gin was _sure--_

"Bye, then," said Izuru, smiling apologetically. "I'll see you later."

Gin's stomach tensed. In three swift steps he was bent over the back of Izuru's chair, tilting the boy's head up and kissing him with scandalous abandon, ignoring his muffled sound of surprise. He sensed Hinamori lean away, sensed her widened, downcast eyes and hypocritically embarrassed blush. Good. Good.

"Gin, Izuru," Sousuke intoned from the doorway. "Exhibitionism."

Izuru broke the kiss, reddening all the way to his hairline. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"I ain't," said Gin, and pushed past his guardian on his way to the genkan, where Isane was pulling on a pair of floral-print gumboots over three pairs of knee socks stacked up her calves like long ice cream cones. He plopped down next to her with an optimistic grin. "Jus' the two of us today, ne, Isane-nee-san?"

"Yeah," she croaked.

It shouldn't have been. There should have been four.

For show, it was all for show. Gin knew too well the scope of Sousuke's patience to believe he was succumbing so quickly to Gin's machinations. This was an endurance test. He wasn't saying _I'll take you back,_ he was saying _I can take Izuru __**away**_ -- not that he could actually get rid of the boy, not without arousing suspicion: Izuru was too innocuous, especially when contrasted against some of Pure Souls' other residents. His grades were good. He was well-liked by. . .well, everyone. He was remarkably stable, something that even Gin hadn't initially guessed, and even if Sousuke _could_ find a feasible reason for his departure, the blond was already too wrapped up in Gin to let sleeping dragons lie. They could still find ways to communicate, correspond, be, on some level, _together._

The only way, Gin knew, the _only_ way Sousuke stood a chance of truly separating them without indicting himself in some way would be to divert Izuru's attention elsewhere -- and where better than with that _gullible,_ fallaciously _innocent_ little. . .

Really, who _forgets_ they have a Shakespearean sonnet due in two days? That little idiot. . .but wait, wasn't Izuru just _so good_ at poetry? He'd been a member of the club at his old school, after all. Please, Izuru, Momo-chan would be so grateful for your help -- yes, she would; _so_ grateful!

No, please, really, Izuru wasn't that good, and he'd never written a sonnet before -- they were notoriously difficult, well out of his league--

But with the two of them working _together,_ with Momo-chan's vocabulary and Izuru's creativity and sense of pacing and rhythm. . .

But. . .but he was supposed to go with Gin to--

To do what? Sit in a waiting room for an hour or two circling hidden objects in children's magazines?

_Please,_ Kira-kun?

Well. . .a-all right. . .

Gin gave his boot laces a violent tug, his jaw clenching in a rapid, pensive rhythm.

_Don't fall for it, Izuru-chan. Don't you __**dare**__ fall for it._

He pulled on his double-breasted navy peacoat, grabbed a random umbrella from the stand next to the door (Rin's, he noticed upon opening it outside; green and topped with frog eyes), and headed out into the drizzling sleet. He was halfway down the drive when Isane caught up to him, splashing slush, clutching the stem of her own umbrella level with her heart.

* * *

The train car was empty but for the two of them, and silent but for its rumbling and the occasional hydrolic shriek that, if Gin tried hard enough, could be made to resemble the scream of a little girl.

He looked at Isane curled so tightly in on herself, shoulders hunched, legs crossed demurely at the ankles. A newborn memory writhed: one of plush lips pressed against silver hair that was not his own.

Sweet, Izuru had called her. _Sweet,_ but she was another one -- a woolgathering wolf. _Why_ was Gin the only one who could see it? The only one who could tell naïfs from knives? These girls were _dangerous._ Their fleeces were _synthetic,_ their senses of security _false._ They _lied._ He couldn't smell himself but he could damn well smell his own kind, and if he was unforgiven then it was only right that they be unforgiven, too.

". . .Isane-_nee_-san," he sing-songed, stretching out the middle word as he swung from one of the looped rubber subway straps, balanced on the toe-tips of his boots.

The silver-haired girl glanced up at him, startled, shy, suspicious. "I-Ichimaru-san?"

Gin chewed absently on the barbells in his mouth, clicked them between his molars. "Did you know, Isane-nee-san, that in English, your given name's only one letter away from meanin' 'crazy?' Kinda funny, don'tcha think?"

"Funny," she echoed. Her voice was so tender, he thought: every syllable sounded bruised.

He swung his feet up onto the seat next to hers and let go of the strap, accordioned his body into a crouch. She flinched when he brought his face close to hers.

"Ya look real pretty today, Isane-nee-san."

"A. . .arigatou. . ."

"_Real_ pretty," he reiterated. "An' so ladylike. I remember when ya first got here, those silly lil' cartoon t-shirts you always used ta wear. I kinda miss 'em, ta be honest. But then, I don't s'pose they'd fit quite the same anymore, ne?"

Isane stared down at her gumboots, cheeks burning red and round as bull's-eyes.

Gin aimed, squinting.

"Now look at you, in your big girl blouse. You're developin' into a _beautiful_ young woman, ya know. So big an' strong. Gosh, I think you're almos' as tall as me now!"

Gray eyes closed. "Please don't say such things. I'm not. . .I-I don't want. . ."

"Don't want what? Ta grow up? Why not? It's fun! Ya get ta go places without anyone holdin' your hand, an' reach all the stuff on the top shelf, like cookies an' ice cream an'. . .what else?"

Gloved fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, gathering its hem above turned-in knees.

"Oh," said Gin. "Right." He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "You were tall enough ta reach _her,_ weren't ya?"

Isane blanched, eyes snapping open, sclera already congested pink and bright with unshed tears.

"H-how do you know--"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Gin cut her off with an easy laugh. "It ain't like Sousuke's laptop is some heavily guarded safety-deposit box. His password for everythin' is 'kudakero.'"

"You can't do that!"

"I can't? That's weird, I could'a sworn I _did. . ._maybe I'm just psychic, then." He shrugged and flexed his toes, rocking gently back and forth, back and forth on the seat beside her. "'s true, though, ain't it? What happened then. What happened when you found her swingin'."

He could see the mechanism of his words at work like a skeleton key, unlocking the door to her memories even as she scrambled to plug its underside gap with wet towels.

". . .it smelled so bad," she murmured. "All the exhaust. It made my throat burn. It made me want to throw up. We. . .we couldn't even see her until we'd gotten the garage door open and the air started to clear. And K-Kiyone. . .she _screamed_. She was s-screaming for me to cut her down, and I _did,_ but I. . ."

"But it was already too late. She had already abandoned you. Don' feel too bad, Isane-nee-san. I mean, she prob'ly would'a found a way ta do it eventually anyway. I mean, she left a car runnin' in a closed garage _and_ hung herself, just ta make sure? Your mama _really_ wanted ta die. And you. . .you were eleven years old an' your childhood was already over."

"I wasn't ready."

Gin huffed a contemptuous breath through his nose. "Still aren't. Look at you. Ya got four years on Kiyone-chan an' she's already older'n you."

Isane shook her head, dappled gaze distant, soft voice small. "She doesn't remember it like I do."

"Jealous?" Gin asked.

"No! I'm glad. I'm _grateful._ Sh-she can grow up--"

"Instead o'_you?_ Lemme tell ya somethin', Isane-nee-san: emotional surrogates? They got a way of backfirin'. By the time you're mature enough ta order a meal that don't come with a toy, half your life'll be gone. Kiyone-chan don't realize it yet, but she will by then, an' when she does, d'you really think she ain't gonna resent ya for it? Resent havin' ta play okan ta you in a way you've never really done for her, always too scared ta be anywhere a grown-up ain't?"

Her breathing had grown tight and quick, setting off tremors in her shoulders that quivered all the way down her arms to her hands as she fumbled with her purse, rummaged for an orange plastic bottle the contents of which made crackling noises like a baby's rattle. She popped off the lid, trembled out one white, rectangular pill, broke it in half and tossed both pieces back as if they were a double shot of some strong liquor.

"Why stop at one?" Gin asked. "Like mother, like daughter, ne? It'd be a real peaceful way ta go. No mess, no pain. . .just lay down, like you're goin' ta sleep. Ain't no one closer to the ground than Kiyone-chan. Then they can scream at _her_ for not proppin' you up an' keepin' your eyes open. Wouldn't that be fitting? Wouldn't that be just desserts? Apple-sweet, jus' like Snow White. Jus' like the princess you wish you were instead o'the ogre you turned out ta be."

Isane sniffled and shook her head, her eyes slanting down and to her right, up, down again and left in frantic and futile attempts to avoid his face. "I'm not listening to this."

"Oh, I think you can hear me jus' fine," Gin sneered. "Think about it, Isane-nee-san -- d'you really wanna wait around till she's big enough ta cut you down? Or should you just get it over with here an' now, so's she can let someone else do the dirty work for her -- again?"

The outline of her lips turned a waxy white from their being pressed so hard together, and another sniffling moment passed before she finally met his gaze, her own anguished and angry, a strange combination of defiance and defeat.

". . .Rangiku-san is wrong about you," she murmured.

Gin cocked his head curiously. "Is she now?"

"You're a monster."

He shrugged. "So were the children of angels."

"Why are you doing this?"

"'cause Ran-chan's wrong about you, too."

"What?"

He snorted in derision. "Don't bother. I was standin' right there, remember?" He dropped from the seat to the floor, his boots coming down loud and hard against the vinyl. Isane quailed at the noise, shrank back when he bent double and trapped her with his arms, his hands on her seat back on either side of her shoulders.

"But she's too good for you, ya got that?" he hissed. "She's too smart for you. Hell, she's too _old_ for you! All you fuckin' piglets squealin' away from big bads, all you fuckin' _shoats,_ cryin' about dissection while you keep crankin' the heat up on that boilin' pot, planning and plotting an' tastin' the broth, but she ain't gonna fall for it, you hear me? She ain't gonna fall for it!"

"W-what are you talking about? Rangiku-san--"

"Is _mine!_" he shouted. "An' you can't have 'im, you can't _fuckin'_ have 'im, Sous--"

Gin's mind stumbled like a runner whose foot had hit the hurdle. He caught himself, barely, by the skin of his fingertips, "S-so. . .so stop tryin'!"

Isane stared at him, bewildered. "H-him?"

Gin licked his lips.

He swallowed, and shuttered his eyes back into their wonted squint.

Slowly, he stood and turned away from her, reached up and returned to hanging limply from the hand strap, his body swaying gently as the train decelerated and came to a stop at Dangai Station.

The doors opened with a hiss. Isane grabbed her purse and darted past him, daring to look back only when she had reached the relative safety of the platform. He still swung, facing away from her.

She hesitated.

"I. . .Ichimaru-san? A-are you coming?"

Gin stopped swinging.

". . .after all I just said ta you," he murmured incredulously, shaking his head. "You go 'head; I'll be along. Don't get lost, Isane-_nee_-san. . ."

The doors rumbled closed, and the train was off again like a shot.

* * *

Gin switched lines at Hokutan Station and rode the northbound rails, disembarking one station short of Hueco Mundo. The entrance to Tres Cifras Apartments was easily negotiated thanks to a folded bit of paper someone had jammed into the latch, and he obligingly held the elevator door for a dopey-looking blond kid being walked by a meter-high mass of matted, corded white fur with no discernible eyes or legs.

"Whoa," he said as he was quite literally swept to the back of the elevator. "What happened? Your mop get bit by a radioactive dog?"

The gargantuan thing _growled,_ and the kid looked at Gin sidelong and chewed at the thumb he had pressed against his lips.

"Fuuraa. . ." he said warningly, indicating the behemoth with a flick of vivid violet eyes.

"Erm," said Gin, flattening himself as best he could against the elevator wall, "yeah. . .good Fuuraa, nice puppy. . .hey, he don't bite, do he?"

The kid didn't reply, but smiled in a way that made Gin think his own looked downright _genial_ in comparison. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand when both Dopey and dog(?) disembarked on the ninth floor, and wondered, two storeys up and halfway down the hall, why that cute lil' cartoon about the Fox and the Hound never seemed to pan out in real life. . .

He knocked out an irritating tune on the door of number 80 and put his face up to the the spyhole. A low curse could be heard from inside the apartment, followed a few seconds later by a light brown eye blotting out the light on the other side of the fish-eye glass.

It disappeared, and the door opened to reveal a shirtless Zaraki Kenpachi, shorter than Gin had seen him last, on account of his liberty spikes having been flattened into half-a-dozen thick, braided cornrows against his scalp. His hair was still loose where the last one would go, just above and behind his right ear.

"Ichimaru," he said, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. "Now's not really a good time."

"Sorry, Zaraki-san. Didn't mean ta interrupt ya while ya was gettin' your hair did."

Kenpachi smirked humorlessly. "Whaddaya want?"

"I wanna make a transaction." Gin took the pill bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to the taller man, who snatched it out of the air like a bothersome fly. "Lorazepam, two milligrams. Take one-half ta one tablet by mouth twice daily as needed for anxiety. Quantity sixty. Well, forty-four now. 's been a few days."

Kenpachi read the label, then looked at him. "Ain't your housemate gonna miss these?"

Gin shrugged. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Damn. An' I thought _I_ was a piece o'shit."

Gin shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Look, I'm givin' you first dibs. Ya want 'em or not?"

"It's not like you ta need a quick buck."

"'s not like _you_ ta be so observant," the fox-faced boy shot back.

Kenpachi glowered at him for a moment, then chuckled, his broad shoulders relaxing. "You're right," he said. "It ain't. How much?"

"Whatever you think is fair," Gin smiled. "I trust ya."

"Tch."

The dealer took his wallet from his jeans, then counted out five pale cream-and-blue-green bills.

"How's that?" he asked.

Gin pocketed the money and bowed. "Pleasure doin' business with ya, Zaraki-san. Give baby girl my regards."

"Yeah, right."

The silver-haired youth meandered lazily back down the hall, singing to himself, "_And now I'm ready to close my eyes, and now I'm ready to close my mind, 'cause now I wanna be your dog. . .well come on!_"

* * *

"That is one fucked-up kid," Kenpachi announced once the door was closed.

"Who was it?" Retsu asked, emerging from the hall to resume her seat on the sofa.

"Ichimaru Gin. You're goin' over there tonight, right? 's Monday."

She nodded and caught the pill bottle he flicked her way before he settled again on the floor between her legs, his back to the sofa, arms draped over her thighs.

"Might wanna slip that back on the medicine shelf while you're there."

The nurse read the label, eyes widening. "He sold these to you?"

"Five thousand yen even."

"Has he done this before?"

Kenpachi shrugged. "Couple times. Never someone else's shit, though, just his own. Said it candied his brains."

The metaphor called up images of things sticky and syrupy, thick, slow, and nauseating -- terribly apt, Retsu thought, recalling the medicinal cocktail Aizen and Ushouda-sensei had concocted to balance the boy's moods and behavior.

"What the fuck's he got, anyway?" Kenpachi asked. "Seems like everyone who meets 'im gets a different fuckin' story. Schizo, sociopath, bipolar, MPD. . ."

Retsu shook her head. "He's not dissociative. I can't ethically tell you more than that, but even if I could, I haven't been trained to either verify or dispute his diagnosis. In any case, thievery is not a symptom and he shouldn't be doing it. Especially in this case, it was. . .senselessly cruel." She set the bottle aside on the end table, next to a small jar of hair gel into which she dipped the tips of her fingers.

Kenpachi tilted his head to the side as she combed the stuff through the last of his loose hair before beginning to twist together the final braid.

"Look," he said after a minute, "however you get those back to that girl, don't rat Ichimaru out to Aizen."

He felt her fingers falter against the shell of his ear. "Why?"

"'cause it won't do any good. Best case scenario, we reach a stalemate. The little fucker's smart, okay? Goddamn smart, no matter how stupid he acts. He doesn't forget shit, an' I don't mean he knows how ta hold a grudge, though trust me, system kids always do. The second he knows about that bottle, his trust in either of us, if we even had it to begin with, is out-the-fuckin'-window _gone,_ and if he does it again, it won't be me he sells it to.

"He'll know about us, too, and when you don't tell Aizen how that really came to be in your possession, he'll know we don't _want_ anybody knowin'. That'll give 'im leverage, but not much more than we have over him. On the other hand, if he gets wind that Aizen knows? Little bastard'll yowl like a tomcat in rut to anyone with workin' ears about the dirtbag fuckin' drug dealer he sold it to, _and_ his two-faced accomplice."

Retsu digested this for a moment, then contended, "If I told Aizen-san the truth, I could request that he keep that knowledge from Ichimaru-kun. At least he would know to watch him more closely. I know the two of you never got along, but if I asked for his discretion, I feel he would honor it. He is a compassionate man--"

"Che. Compassionate. Right."

She tied off the braid with a small elastic band and ran her fingers along his scalp between the rows, tilting his head back to look at him.

"What?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of her stare.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

Kenpachi glared. "No. Guy's just always given me a bad fuckin' vibe, that's all. I don't like him an' I don't trust him, and I don't want him knowin' _shit_ about me, or you, or Yachiru, all right?"

Retsu let her gaze linger for another moment, but relented, "All right," and smoothed her hands down his chest as she leaned forward to capture his mouth in an upside-down kiss, her loose hair falling in dark curtains around their faces. Kenpachi tangled a hand in it, wrapping his large fingers around the back of her neck, thumbing the bone at the top of her spine.

"Listen," he said seriously, in what passed for him as a soft tone of voice, "keep an eye on Ichimaru yourself, if you feel like you gotta, but don't provoke him. I don't think he'd try anything, knowin' he'd hafta answer to me, but he knows where you live, an' whatever kinda crazy he's got, it ain't the uncontrollable impulse ta cover the world in love, glitter an' unicorn shit."

Retsu pulled his hand away and sat back, a small, disarmingly sweet smile touching the corners of her mouth. "How do you know Ichimaru-kun knows where I live?"

Kenpachi's head snapped forward.

He sniffed, cleared his throat and stood. Grabbed his shirt from where it had been carelessly thrown on the kitchen table.

"I, uh, I gotta pick Yachiru up from Yumichika's. . ."

"Kenpachi."

"Thanks for the braids. Lock up when you leave."

"Kenpachi."

She caught him as he was shoving his feet into his boots in the genkan. He risked a glance at her face, and fought down a wince when he found her still smiling -- a single expression, he'd come to learn, that could contain myriad meanings: happy, sad, irritated, horny, anxious, "oh dear, I do believe your ass is fast approaching a proverbial platter". . .

Maybe she wouldn't have to worry about Ichimaru, after all.

"You comin' back tonight?"

"Tomorrow," she said, but tacked a "maybe" on the end, telling him that she'd lowered the matter, but hadn't yet let it drop. It was reprieve enough for now.

"Call first," he told her. "I might not be around."

"Then come to my house when you will be."

"I don't want you sittin' up waitin' for me or nothin'."

"Nor do I," she agreed, "so I suggest you not take overlong."

"Fuckin' woman," he growled.

"Insufferable man."

Kenpachi leered down at her. "I love it when you talk dirty."

He got a face full of his own leather jacket as she shoved him out and shut the door behind him.

"Hey!" he shouted through the barrier, pounding on and denting the wood. "You can't kick me outta my own fuckin' apartment!"

His reply was the scratch of the chain lock being slid into place.

"Bitch," he muttered, grinning.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Kenpachi glanced down the hall at the owner of the falsetto enquiry: a tranny nearly as tall as he was, already plumped and primped to make the evening's catch in fishnet stockings.

Kenpachi smirked.

"Trouble _is_ paradise."

* * *

"You're late, Ichimaru-kun."

"Am I? Golly, I hope that don' mean I'm pregnant. . ."

Behind his desk, Ushouda Hachigen-sensei smirked and folded his big hands. "Have a seat."

Gin threw himself down on the fainting sofa stretched out next to the nearest wall, heedless of his boots dripping slush on the rich burgundy leather. He threw an arm melodramatically over his eyes and sighed. "It all started when I was a boy. . ."

"Yes, it did. But we're here to talk about the present today, Ichimaru-kun."

"I don' wanna talk about it. I'd rather be surprised."

"Aizen-san tells me your studies have improved somewhat. He said you received a mark of Good from Hikifune-sensei on your last Calculus test."

No mention of Isane -- but then, Gin had known she would tattle on him. He'd only told her the truth, after all. _An' when the truth don't make ya look good, an' ya know better than ta tell it, how crazy can ya really be?_

Not very.

No, not at all.

"I'm just a regular over-achiever, ain't I?"

Ushouda-sensei side-stepped his sarcasm with a remarkably graceful mental gait for so large a man.

"I wouldn't go that far, Ichimaru-kun, but it is an admirable accomplishment nonetheless."

"Thanks for noticin'."

"You've been feeling more focused lately? More centered?"

Gin shrugged.

"Aizen-san also tells me he suspects your improvement is in part due to your frequent study sessions with Pure Souls' newest addition, a boy named. . ." Ushouda-sensei checked his notes. ". . .Kira Izuru-san, and that the two of you have grown quite inseparable even outside of your academic pursuits."

Inseparable. A tricky word, one too close to "inoperable" for Gin's comfort, as subtle and important as the differences between anastomosis and metastasis. Even healthy conjoined twins could still be classed as deformed, twisted, _bad._

He chewed on his tongue rings as he chewed over his words. "Yeah, I guess we have."

"You are seeing each other?"

"'course we are. We see everyone we look at."

"I meant to imply that the two of you are romantically involved."

"Oh. That." _Duh. What else?_ Gin dampened his lips and shifted his weight. "Izuru-chan is. . .I like Izuru-chan a _lot._ Lots more than I should, I s'pose."

More than he should? No. Only more than he'd meant to. When dealing with infallibility, all errors were ones of necessity.

"What does that mean, 'more than you should?'"

Gin tapped one foot against the air to the rhythm of an unseen drum. His memory rolled like choppily spliced film, _IzuruIzuruIzuru._ One boy a complete sentence in his head, steadfast, unwavering, ironclad. A fixture with the same unintentional permanence of a scar. A stigmata. A miracle mark.

"Gin?" the psychiatrist prompted.

"D'you believe in fate, Ushouda-sensei?"

"Fate?"

"Yeah. Destiny. Kismet. Foreordination."

"To a certain extent. I believe in self-fulfilling prophecies."

"Y'see, thing is, I dunno if I like Izuru-chan just 'cause I _do, _or because of. . .because o'what happened before. Or, because o'what happened before, should I _not_ like Izuru-chan the way I do? I mean, am I jus' destined ta get fucked in the ass, good or bad? Am I jus' that kinda person? I don't got a sign or nothin' tattooed down there that I dunno about, do I?"

"Ichimaru-kun, please pull up your trousers. Thank you. And no, there is no tattoo."

_Knew you'd look, you perverted pink prick. . ._

"Tell me, Ichimaru-kun, when you are with Kira-san, how do you feel?"

"Good," he shrugged, and then smirked, "Sometimes _real_ good. Like, he does this thing with his tongue where he--"

"The details are unnecessary, Ichimaru-kun."

"No, no, everyone should know this trick. So he takes his tongue an' he flicks it back an' forth real fast just unnerneath--"

"Ichimaru-kun, please."

Gin smiled. "Izuru-chan says that, too, only he jus' calls me Gin."

Ushouda-sensei sighed. "_Emotionally,_ how do you feel when you are with him?"

The sound of his own voice filled Gin's head, all anarchic, ragged gasps and unchecked outcries hushed only by pillows or Izuru's sweaty, salty palm. He thought of the suck marks scattered all over his body like the bruises left by rubber rounds. He could scream and he was bullet-proof and there was nothing, _nothing_ that could shut him up or take him down. He could walk on wine and blind the healing and mute the exorcised. He'd painted his doorpost with lamb's blood and neither God nor Pharoah could touch him now.

He could captain an army.

Lead an exodus.

"An exodus? Of whom, and from where?"

Gin frowned. He had said that part out loud?

"Just. . .anyone. Anyone stuck in a bad place who don' wanna be there no more."

"As Aizen-san did for you."

Izuru's face shifted in Gin's mind. His jaw grew rounder and his eyes more narrow. His forelock shortened and leveled off. He smiled, revealing big white teeth.

"Yeah. Jus' like that."

The face grew younger, and rounder still. A smattering of freckles appeared on the bridge of its nose. The eyes grew tense, and the thin lips turned down. One small hand raised, and was clasped in a larger one.

"Do you believe that Kira-san was sent to you in order for you to save him? Is that what you mean by fate?"

Gin's mental camera panned back, bringing into view a doorway with peeling red paint, a concrete stoop littered with cigarette butts, a bespectacled man smiling kindly as he ruffled a pensive preteen's straw-blond hair. The corner of the man's wallet was visibly peeking above the back right pocket of his khakis, the buttery brown leather sheeny in the sunlight, winking, beckoning.

"No-o. Jeez! I ain't delusional, Ushouda-sensei! An' besides, I'd make a terrible savior."

His doctor smiled. "I would say that all depends on what or who you're trying to save. Matsumoto-kun would certainly think otherwise."

"Ran-chan. . ." Gin murmured, but the automatic warmth he habitually felt at the mention of her name was made tepid by a cooler splash of doubt. "Ran-chan thinks Izuru-chan is good for me."

"Does she?" Did she? Did she really? "And what do _you_ think?"

"Like I said," Gin sat up and rested his forearms on his knees, "I dunno."

"You know, Ichimaru-kun, a person's sexuality can be impacted by their past, but it isn't necessarily dictated by it. Had you not suffered the abuse that you did, it's well within the realm of possibility that you would enjoy the company of, well, other boys, regardless. What is most important is that you differentiate _now_ from _then._ The root of your predilections regarding physical affection is, in this instance, ultimately obsolete, providing they are condusive to your mental health and emotional well-being. Even the most well-adjusted people can have difficulty discerning exactly why they are drawn to another person."

"Ya think so?"

"I know so."

_You don' know nothin'._

* * *

"How's it coming?" Aizen asked, leaning against the library's door jamb.

Izuru and Momo looked up. "Fine," and "Great!" they said at once, then shared a glance, and laughed.

"We're working our way towards it," Izuru explained. "Giving ourselves some leeway with the syllables and just concentrating on telling the story first, then Hinamori-kun can properly condense it."

"Good," Aizen smiled. "May I see what you have so far?"

"No!" Momo yelped, then caught herself and blushed fiercely, covering the messily-edited paper self-consciously with her hands. "I mean. . .of course you can read it, but, please, not before it's finished."

Aizen chuckled. "Of course. I'll be waiting with bated breath. It's nearing five, though, and Momo-chan, it's yours and Rangiku's turn to prepare dinner tonight. You and Izuru can resume working on the poem later on this evening."

"Hai!" The young girl closed her paper in a book and left the room at a happy trot, while Izuru stood and stretched and cracked his back.

"Izuru," said Aizen, still lingering in the threshold.

The blond looked at him questioningly.

"I was just going to pick up Gin and Isane from Ushouda-sensei's office. Care to ride along?"

* * *

"How would you describe Kira-san, Ichimaru-kun?"

"Cute," Gin said, "in a kinda droopy, puppy-dog kinda way. Blond hair, blue eyes, not real tall. Skinny."

"And what else?"

"That he's smart's kind of a given, ain't it?"

"Kind of."

"He's real polite. Kinda sweet, kinda snobby. He likes baseball an' poetry an' he's allergic ta jellyfish. He's. . ."

The bay doors opened on Gin's Enola Gay Little Boy.

His finger hovered over the button.

"Yes, Ichimaru-kun?"

Gin let the bomb whistle into freefall, "He's like my glue, ya know? Like the lead that holds the pieces o'glass together in one o'them fancy colored windows, or the mortar that keeps a Mosaic from gettin' kicked all over the place."

If only capital letters could be heard.

The Fat Man murmured, "I see."

_You see like a blind man who's told what's in his way while he's walkin',_ Gin inwardly snarled._ You think just 'cause I'm talkin', I'm tellin' the truth. You dig where I wrote the X while I'm off spendin' my treasure. You underestimate me, jus' like everyone else, an' jus' like everyone else ya do it 'cause I say so; but you should know better. Sousuke's everythin' you __**wish**__ you were, wish you could do. So why ain't it crossed your mind yet that he's already done it?_

_If I was anyone else, you'd'a failed me three hundred times over; so don't you even __**think**__ about failin' me now. . ._

* * *

"So," said Aizen as he drove, "you've been with us almost three months. How have you been liking it?"

Izuru considered his answer carefully as he watched rivulets of freezing rain join and fork in the upper left corner of the windshield. "It's. . .good."

"You sound uncertain."

"Well, you may as well be asking me how I like my coffee when I asked for tea. It could be really great coffee, but. . ."

"It isn't what you were expecting. What you wanted. It isn't home."

Izuru wriggled in his seat, tucked his hands underneath his thighs. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful."

"No, no. I understand. A silver lining doesn't make the cloud disappear."

"No, but. . .I'm still thankful it's there." _So thankful. I'd wish for rain in a flood._

Aizen smiled. "Good. I'll be honest with you, Izuru: you've impressed me a great deal since your arrival here."

Izuru blinked. "I have?"

"Mm," Aizen nodded. "It's not my way to be. . .overly invasive, in the lives of my wards. I hope you haven't felt as though I've been neglecting you, or that I haven't been paying attention; only I didn't get the feeling you needed a counselor so much as you needed to deal with things on your own. And you have dealt remarkably well."

"Too well?"

Aizen shook his head. "No," he reassured him. "Chaining yourself to a loved one's grave will do nothing to prove your devotion to them. A child cannot repay his parents for the gift of life by using them as an excuse to refuse to truly live. You do them a great service every day, Izuru. With every step forward, you honor their memory."

"I've had help," he said.

"Ah," Aizen chuckled knowingly. "Gin."

Izuru blushed.

"He is also a remarkable boy, although, sadly, too often misunderstood."

"He means well," Izuru insisted. "He really does, so much more often than people give him credit for."

"I know. _'It is by the prince of demons that he drives out the demons.'_ Interacting with him is akin to going to see a brilliant surgeon who never went to medical school and operates without anesthesia."

Izuru's expression darkened. "Are _you_ going to warn me to be careful with him, too?"

"Indeed I am."

The blond sighed, glaring out the window. "_Why_ does everyone think he's out to hurt me?"

"Izuru--"

"I'm not a little kid, and Gin's not some stranger with candy trying to lure me into his car. And how can you say that _you_ know he means better than he seems to _and_ tell me to watch out for him all in the same breath?"

"Izuru, you misunderstand me. When I say I want you to watch out for Gin, I mean precisely that -- watch out for him. Watch his back. Be careful with him, because, like his good intentions, his fragility can all too easily go unnoticed. Gin is a special case. He. . .bruises. . .extremely easily, much more easily that even he himself believes. Of course I don't expect you to do anything you don't want to -- by all means, if your feelings for him change, don't feel that you're obligated to stay with him for the good of his mental health; only keep in mind, as you have in your growing closer to him, that he requires a slightly different approach than most -- one of little leniency, but _deep_ compassion."

"You think _I'm_ going to hurt _him?_"

"No, not in the slightest. I only want you to be aware that you _could._ Never let him try to convince you otherwise. His life has not been a simple one, even here."

Izuru remembered the textbook he'd found hidden beneath Gin's bed, and wondered if Aizen knew about it. "Little leniency" meant probably not, but "deep compassion" could mean that he did.

"Do you really think he's brilliant?" Izuru asked, trying not to come across as either too doubtful or overenthusiastic to have his own suspicions confirmed.

Aizen was quiet for a moment before judiciously replying, "There are many different types of brilliance. Gin's. . .is not of a type which can be measured by ordinary means. He knows more than he understands."

Another riddle, Izuru thought glumly: either Gin knew more than he thought he did, or he could recite mathematical theorums but be unable to tell which one applied to any particular problem. But then. . .

_Ya don't hafta hate a cobra ta know why it's dancin'._

"You always speak in synonyms," Izuru mumbled, careful to sound more petulant than accusatory.

Aizen glanced at him through the space between his glasses and his face.

"Sorry," he smiled. "It's the psychologist in me. You can't tell people what's wrong with them, Izuru. You can name it, but only after you've asked the right questions and _they've_ told _you._ To lead them on in any direction but inside themselves would be, well, tantamount to brainwashing."

_That ain't trust, Izuru-chan. That's mind-control._

Izuru felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. Suddenly, Gin's words sounded less like an assessment, and more like a warning.

And what did that say about him, that he trusted more than anything the one person almost everyone else didn't, but couldn't bring himself to believe the words of the one person everyone else did? Was that his own kind of crazy? He had proof of Gin's decency, but of Aizen's duplicity, he had nothing. Anxious, overstrung Izuru, always jumping at shadows and closeted snakes.

"Here we are," said Aizen as they pulled into a parking garage in downtown Rukongai. They found an empty space on the fifth level, then crossed a sky bridge to the adjoining Kidou Corporation Medical Services building. The elevator that took them to the fourteenth floor played new-age Muzak and had mirrored walls that were probably hiding cameras.

Izuru followed Aizen down a hall and through a door burdened by a heavy-looking wood-and-brass plaque that read,

**Ushouda Hachigen, M.D.****  
Family Therapy  
Child and Adolescent Psychiatry**

The two small, peppy nurses behind the reception desk in the waiting room greeted them cheerfully and told them that Ichimaru-kun was still in with Hachi-sensei, but should be finishing up soon. Isane was curled up in a plush corner chair, looking pensive, and Izuru took one of the seats next to hers with a subdued "Hey," while Aizen got their parking ticket validated.

"Hi," she mumbled in return, not taking her eyes off of the carpet's colorful squares.

Izuru bit his lip, feeling suddenly awkward. Something was clearly wrong, but despite their living together in the same house for the past three months, he and Isane hadn't ever spoken much, and Izuru didn't think he knew her well enough to pry -- not to mention the fact that they were sitting in a psychiatrist's office. Whatever was the matter, Isane was probably sick of talking about it, and even if she wasn't, Izuru doubted highly that anything he could say to her would be an improvement on Ushouda-sensei's trained advice.

He had just resigned himself to twiddling his thumbs in awkward silence until Gin's appointment was finished when she spoke again, and the sympathetic smile Izuru had been offering her fell into a frown.

"You'd better not sit too close to me. Your boyfriend might get the wrong idea."

He blinked at her in bemusement. "The wrong idea? Isane-san, what--"

"Hey," Aizen butted in, taking the chair on the silver-haired girl's other side. "How'd it go?"

Isane only shrugged and drew her legs in tighter, and pulled her arm away when Aizen moved to rest a consoling hand upon it.

The bespectacled man sighed. "That well, huh? Well, we'll be home soon."

The door to Ushouda-sensei's office proper opened on slightly creaky hinges, and Gin stepped out, followed by a huge man with a pink flat-top and bristly mustache. The silver-haired boy's face lit up at the sight of Izuru, whose confusion at Isane's cryptic warning evaporated when Gin took him by the hand to pull him up and drag him over to the loveseat that stood in front of the waiting room's wide picture window. They flopped down together, laughing, arms and ankles hooked.

Izuru blushed when he noticed the way Ushouda-sensei's eyes had fixed contemplatively upon the two of them, but the big man only smiled indulgently before disappearing with Aizen into his office to discuss the day's sessions.

"Still sane?" Izuru asked, smiling.

"Eh," said Gin, rocking one foot from side to side on its heel like a metronome. "It was touch-an'-go there for a second, but I'm feelin' much better now. Did ya hear the blast?"

"Huh?"

"You're stuck wit' me now, Izuru-chan. Ain't nothin' between us for anyone ta be concerned about. I got an assurance from the good doctor hisself that Sousuke'll be advised ta let us alone -- 'within reason,' whatever that means."

Izuru smiled in relief. "I'm glad."

"Y'all finish your poem?"

"Not quite, but we've got a good start." He blushed. "It's actually a lot more mature than anything I would have expected Hinamori-kun to write, but she had a very clear idea of what she wanted to convey. I think she may have a crush on an upperclassman."

"That so?" Gin prodded him with an elbow. "It ain't you, is it?"

Izuru looked terrified. "I don't think so," he said firmly.

"Good," said Gin, "'cause I know she's small an' all, but I gotta admit, my body-stashin' skills prob'ly ain't what they used ta be."

Izuru laughed. "You're horrible."

"Naa, I'm just playin', Izuru-chan. I'd never let myself get rusty at somethin' like that!"

Izuru rolled his eyes, and in doing so caught Isane's. She was watching them with a disquieted expression that didn't abate even when her gaze returned to the floor.

The wrong idea? Had Gin said something to her? That he was possessive wasn't anything he took great pains to conceal, but for him to be jealous of _Isane,_ of all people? Even _Renji_ would have made more sense, unless. . .unless _Isane_ liked _Izuru?_

Said Izuru found the thought a baffling one, although he knew he could be a little oblivious sometimes, especially where girls were concerned; maybe Gin had picked up on something he had missed?

Like Izuru had with that guy. That singer at Yumichika's party.

Shinji from Shinchi.

What an obnoxious, talentless, _brainless_. . .and he wasn't even _cute._ His teeth were too big and his eyes were too small and who the hell had dressed him, anyway, Tousen-sensei? What had Gin _seen_ in him?

"You're doin' that thing with your teeth again, Izuru-chan. Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Nothing," Izuru mumbled, pressing his face against the small nook where Gin's shoulder and collar bone met in an imbecilic attempt to hide.

"Don't sound like nothin'," Gin persisted. "C'mon. 'fess up."

"You. . ._you_ don't mind, do you? Being stuck with me, too?"

Long fingers combed idly through soft yellow hair. "Mind, Izuru-chan? What, ya think I'm just puttin' up with you ta kill time?"

"No! That's not it at all! I only meant that. . ." Izuru squirmed. "Well, I. . ."

"You. . .?"

"You. . ."

"Me?"

Gin was possessive, and Aizen's words, disinclined though Izuru was to put much stock in them, were still fresh in his mind. He had misread Gin before, on his first day at the Academy, and he felt now the other boy's answering hurt had been genuine. Now, when Gin meant so much more to him, and he to Gin. . .if Izuru was wrong again. . .

"I'm. . .I'm just being stupid. Forget I said anything."

Gin tsked, and Izuru felt him shake his head. "I can't do that, Izuru-chan."

"Can't you? You forget stuff all the time." _Or at least you act like you do. . ._

"Well, which would ya rather? I can make like you never said anythin', _or. . ._" He tilted Izuru's head to the side, tilted his own head down. ". . .I can make Iba-han sleep on the couch tonight so's I can show ya just how on my mind you really are."

The whisper was followed by a quick, wet lick to the tragus of Izuru's ear that made his shoulder scrunch up reflexively, and his eyes darted guiltily in the direction of the oblivious nurses behind the desk.

"It's up ta you, Izuru-chan."

Gin leaned back with the self-satisfied smile of one who had all the answers hidden up his sleeve on the day of a final exam.

Which, of course, he did.

* * *

"DON'T FLUSH ME!!"

The shout -- and a split-second later, the _thump_ of two solids colliding -- heralded the precipitous consciousness of Iba Tetsuzaemon on the TV room floor.

He sat up with a grunt and peered confusedly around the room, wondering first where the high white walls of the toilet bowl had gone, and then, that conundrum solved, why he hadn't fallen out of his own bed.

_. . .oh yeah.  
_

_Ugh._

He wanted his other nightmare back.

At least he'd woken just in time to catch the end credits of Play Girl Q as they danced -- and bounced -- across the television screen, which he paid the proper respect with a moment of silent observation before bidding his girls goodnight and pushing the power button on the remote.

The room, he noticed, failed to darken as much as it ought to have. Light was leaking in from down the hall -- from the kitchen, he realized -- and, curious, he kicked himself free of the blanket he'd brought down from his room, searched in vain for a few seconds for one mysteriously absent sock, gave up, and went to investigate.

Kotetsu Isane stood in front of the sink, staring contemplatively at something in her hand. That look. . .

The temperature of Iba's blood cooled to match that of his bare left foot.

He knew that look.

On the counter next to her was a glass of water, and sitting open beside it was--

"Don't."

Isane jumped and whirled at the sound of his voice, her hand curling into an automatic, culpable fist.

"Iba-san!" she breathed.

"Don't do that," he said again.

A painfully fake smile wrenched her lips. "Don't do what?" she asked. "Get a drink of water?"

He stared at her, implacable and disbelieving, until her expression buckled.

"Why not?" she shrugged.

"Because," he countered.

"You don't win many arguments, do you, Iba-san?"

"What about Kiyone?"

Isane pressed her lips together and worried them hard, visibly fighting tears. "She's. . .she's why I have to do this."

His brow furrowed. "What the fuck, Kotetsu?"

"She doesn't need an older sister who acts like a younger one. I don't want to hold her back any more than I already have."

"You don't hold her back, Kotetsu. She needs you."

Isane shook her head. "Not like this."

She reached for the glass of water, took a sip.

Iba tensed.

She put it down again, and let out a quavering breath.

"You know," she said, "I almost didn't get the chance to do this. Unohana-sensei returned these to me this evening. She said she'd found the bottle lying on the ground outside. That it must have somehow fallen out of my purse."

She still wouldn't get the chance -- it had vanished the instant Iba had pushed open the kitchen door. He'd haul her up to Sousuke and Sousuke would have the ipecac down her throat in a _second._ Iba knew that. Rationally, he knew it.

But he didn't want to see her try it anyway.

Didn't want to see the sick look of satisfaction on her face as soon as she swallowed, because if she could do it once then she could do it again and he knew that no matter how badly he might want to he wouldn't be able to watch her every minute of every day.

"All the more reason why you shouldn't do it," he contended. "She'll blame herself. You really wanna do that to her?"

At last, a glimmer of hesitation rippled across Isane's face. "You think--"

"Fuck, Kotetsu, of course she will!" he snapped, not about to tiptoe now that he felt he'd gotten his foot in the door. "You know how Unohana-sensei is -- it'd gut her ta find out she had a hand in this, even an indirect one! Just _think_ about what you're doin' -- and while you're at it, _where_ you're doin' it. Do you really think this house needs another fuckin' tragedy?"

"No, of course I don't!" She looked, in fact, ridiculously hurt that he would even suggest such a thing. "No, Iba-san, you misunderstand me -- I don't want to kill myself."

"You--" Iba stopped short. His upper lip curled in confusion. "You don't?"

"No. Not. . .not literally, anyway." She turned back to the sink, and Iba approached her slowly.

"Well. . .good," he grumbled, more befuddled than embarrassed. He'd had every right to be concerned, damn it. "The hell're you doin', then?"

Isane shrugged. "Growing up, I guess."

She held out her hand over the sink and, bit by bit, unfolded her fingers.

"You're throwing them away?"

Isane nodded as the pills clattered against the metal basin like the beads of a necklace come unstrung. They were chased by their remaining brothers in the bottle, and then finally sluiced down the drain by the water in the glass.

"Is that. . .is that really good for you? Shouldn't you, I dunno, come off 'em gradually or somethin'?"

She took a deep breath, set the glass in the sink with a quick, quiet clunk, and faced him. "No, I shouldn't. I can't afford to waste any more time with baby steps, Iba-san. I can't. . .I can't keep pretending to be a princess in a tower. I know someone else may have put me there, but I've never even tried the door to see if it's really locked, or just closed. I have to grow up. I only have a few more months here, and then what? I'll have to go to university, and find a job. I'll have to -- I _want_ -- to be able to take care of Kiyone until she can do the same. I know I may _look_ like an ostrich, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life with my head in the sand, letting other people do everything for me."

It was her use of "letting" in place of "making" that kept him from further questioning her decision. "Letting" told him she didn't feel held down and forced to endure the slicing off of a fingertip out of guilt -- that had already happened, and the pills had been her bandages.

"Letting" signified that she was deciding, under her own power and even though it clearly frightened her, to get her grip back -- to compensate for what she'd lost with greater strength, and hold her sword as well and steadily as any unmarked man -- woman -- human being.

"You don't look like an ostrich."

Isane blushed hotly and looked away. "Iba-san, please. . .just because I'm no longer lying to make myself feel better doesn't mean you need to start."

"Oi!" he barked. "Iba Tetsuzaemon does not lie! He is a man of honor and integrity! And he has checked out Kotetsu Isane on the sly numerous times!"

"You check out every girl, Iba-san," she pointed out.

"Yeah, and? You're gonna doubt an experienced eye? That just means I know what the hell I'm talkin' about, and I'm tellin' you you're a knockout. A dolly. A dish. If you wanna deal with the truth, start trainin' yourself with _that._"

She smiled -- humoring him, he recognized; but at the moment, when his knees hadn't quite recovered their strength from his sudden, grating shifts between the third gear of fear and the first of relief, he was content to take what he could get.

". . .that's very kind of you, Iba-san," she murmured, "but it doesn't change the fact that most boys aren't looking for a girl they can't kiss without first climbing a step stool."

Then it was his turn to shrug. "Most guys are morons. It's a proven fact that whoever's got the high ground advantage almost always wins, in any kinda fight. And you're what, my height? And I ain't even the tallest guy here."

"Actually, I think I'm a little taller than you."

"Bullshit. C'mere. Stand up straight." He maneuvered her so that they stood face-to-face, toes touching. "Hmph," he acceded after a moment's observation. "Maybe a centimeter. If that."

A beat passed in which he felt either one or both of them ought to have moved away, but neither did.

"Your eyes are brown," Isane noticed. "I can't remember ever seeing them before. You've always got those silly sunglasses on."

Iba flushed and wished he had them now. "Shut up. Those sunglasses are cool."

She smiled again -- genuinely, this time -- and maybe, he thought, she almost laughed. "You're right, Iba-san. They are very cool."

"Damn straight."

She really was a knockout, he reflected. You had to look for it sometimes, had to picture her shoulders pushed back, her chin tilted up, her arms unfolded, her eyes fierce instead of fearful; but when you found it, when you dug it up and dusted it off and finally got to see it stretch its days-long legs, Kotetsu Isane was revealed to be one of the most magnificent of girls.

"Fuck towers," he spat. "You're Kotetsu: Warrior Princess."

Someone giggled, but it wasn't Iba's newly weaponed royalty.

"What's a fuck tower?" Gin asked, shuffling into the kitchen wearing Iba's brown bear paw slippers and not nearly enough else. The damp, naked skin of his torso and arms was striped and spotted with fresh pink marks of varying intensity that rolled over his bones and under the waistband of his boxer shorts. "Don' mind me," he said, opening the fridge, "I just gotta refuel. Ya wouldn't think it ta look at 'im, but whew, that boy's got stamina. . ."

"You better not be doin' any of that shit in my bed," Iba warned him.

"No worries, Iba-han. Izuru-chan said that'd be rude." He grabbed a can of Pocari Sweat, cracked and halfway drained it in three huge gulps. "Ahhh, that's the stuff! Like mother's milk, ne, Isane-_nee_-san?"

Gin moved to wipe his mouth with the back of his forearm, but hesitated when his gaze landed on the empty prescription bottle still sitting on the counter. His smile flickered like an indecisive firefly as his eyes alighted upon her face.

"'s goin' on? You takin' my advice?"

"You wish."

It was the harshest Iba had ever heard her sound, and he saw that her hands had balled up into trembling fists at her sides. The hell. . .?

"Do I?" Gin asked. He took another lazy swig of his drink, exhaled a second noisy sigh. He glanced again at the bottle and he muttered under his breath, "Stupid woman."

"Hey," Iba growled, unsure of what was going on between them but not liking it in the least. "Don't talk to her like that."

The fox-faced boy looked at him quizzically. "Weren't talkin' ta _her,_ Iba-han." He took two more cans from the fridge and tucked them under one bare arm, yelping slightly at the cold, before heading for the door, waving over his shoulder as he went. "You kids be good now. Don't do anything I'd wanna do."

Isane stared uneasily at the kitchen door after he'd gone. "Something is really, really wrong with him."

"Ya think?"

"Iba-san, you're his roommate -- has he ever. . .said things to you? Things that don't make any sense?"

Iba shrugged and rummaged in the pocket of his sweatpants for his pack of Larks, tapped one out and held it, unlit, between his fingers.

"He never makes sense," he said. "Like this one time, he glued his shoes to the wall so it looked like invisible people were marching toward the ceiling. I asked him what the hell, you know? And he spouted some shit about needin' to keep his feet dry when the flood came so he wouldn't get sick. Too little too late, you ask me."

"I'm worried about Kira-san," Isane admitted. "I don't think he really knows who he's involved with."

"Eh. Ichimaru's kinda daffy, but I don't think he's _dangerous._ Anyway, Sousuke seems cool with it."

"Well, Sousuke-san. . ." Isane faltered, as if physically revolted by her own thoughts. ". . .S-Sousuke-san might not always be right," she managed, but her shoulders rolled uncomfortably, like she was adjusting to a newly added -- or lessened -- weight.

Iba himself felt weirdly offended by the statement -- like it wasn't just an opinion, but a blaspheme. He had to consciously remind himself that he didn't give two shits for any church but the one his mother had built in him: faith in his own moral compass and abilities, and the willingness to trust those of others.

_If they fall, Tetsuzaemon, you gotta be strong enough to catch them. If **you** fall and you're lucky, they might catch you back, but you still gotta be strong enough to get up again on your own if they don't. It's okay to let people help you, but never let 'em help you with anything you couldn't do on your own if you had to. Anything that big had better be more than just your problem, and then __**you**__ gotta help everyone else. Got it?_

Yeah. He got it.

"So what're you gonna do if he ain't? The kid's whipped. Shit, from the looks of Ichimaru just now, they both are -- with real whips." Iba shuddered and struggled frantically to unsee the something in latex and spikes that slithered suddenly across his mind's eye. "Guh."

"I don't know," Isane sighed. "I suppose it's none of my business, really, but. . ." She twisted one of the long, beaded tails of her hair between her fingers and gnawed thoughtfully on her bottom lip.

It was cute as hell.

"Iba-san?"

"Aa?"

"Do. . .do you have any hardline feelings about breaking and entering?"

* * *

_Born from some mother's womb  
__Just like any other room__  
Made a promise for a new life__  
Made a victim out of your life_

_When your time's on the door__  
And it drips to the floor__  
And you feel you can touch  
__All the noise is too much  
__And the seeds that are sown  
Are no longer your own_

_**Just a minor operation  
**To force a final ultimatum. . ._ Joy Division, "Leaders of Men"

* * *

**A/N**: _Guh. I'd been starting to wonder if I was ever going to be done with this one. I rewrote it so many times, and it almost went in a totally different direction, but this one, I think, is best. The lyrics Gin sings are from "I Wanna Be Your Dog" by the Stooges. Oh, and Aizen quotes Matthew 9:34 from the Bibble._

_Fanart update: __**voldie-riddle**__ over at Deviantart continues to crank out the illustrative accompaniment. m(_)m m(_)m m(_)m She has some new sketches up from chapters 15 & 16 up on her page, to which I've put up a link in my profile (that I've finally filled out). Please go and goggle at the ByaRen goodness! It's naughty. . . *w*  
_

_Coming up: ByaRen is next, and following that, the introduction of the Hitherto Conspicuously Absent Important Character (and, if I can fit it all in, a tattoo parlor, a birthday, and the most improbably effective cosplay in the history of ever)._


	18. Blazing Cherished

**XVIII. Blazing Cherished**

* * *

"Oh. My. _God._"

Renji tried not to cringe too obviously as he climbed through the back door of Yumi's SUV the following Wednesday, the first day of school succeeding the winter recess.

"What's wrong?" Kira asked, following and hauling Ichimaru, whose fingers were hooked around one of his belt loops, in after him.

". . .I forgot my lip gloss," said Yumi, through suspiciously shiny lips.

Renji studiously avoided the rearview mirror as he hunched down into his seat, surreptitiously checking his reflection in the window to make certain his forehead tattoos hadn't rearranged themselves to read _I HOOKED UP WITH MY HISTORY PROFESSOR OVER BREAK,_ although he'd played that afternoon over and over again so many times in his mind he wouldn't have been too surprised if they had.

He still had trouble believing it had actually happened. He'd so often daydreamed about what the insides of Kuchiki-sensei's -- _Byakuya's_ -- thighs would feel like pressing against his hips (tight, hot, urgent), what those well-manicured hands would feel like in his hair (knotted near the roots and _pulling,_ fuck), that he wasn't entirely sure where his fantasies ended and his memories began.

"Tell me _everything,_" Yumi demanded once they were at school, having barely contained himself long enough to pull Renji away from the group the moment their feet hit the asphalt.

Renji didn't, of course. Not _everything_ (he stopped when Yumichika started biting his knuckles), but. . .enough.

". . .and after, it was just kinda. . .quiet and awkward. We just cleaned up and got changed and he dropped me off outside Rukia's complex."

Yumi nodded, his attention rapt.

"So. . .yeah. We _did_ stuff_,_ but we didn't actually. . ._you know._" He made a vague, rolling gesture with one hand.

Yumi's eyebrows raised. "Good. Because if you can't even _say_ it then you certainly shouldn't be _doing_ it."

"Oi, cut me some slack, here! This is all new territory for me."

"Ah, yes, my intrepid little explorer," Yumi beamed. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Shhh!" Renji hissed. "Not so fucking loud! Or so fucking gay, goddamn. I ain't gonna start askin' to borrow your makeup or anything. I mean, does it even really _count,_ what we did?"

"Of course it counts," the androgyne sniffed. "Contrary to popular heterosexual belief, sex does not automatically equate to penetration."

"Right," Renji agreed, but looked confused. "It doesn't?"

"No, it doesn't. In fact, some gay men go their whole lives without engaging in anal intercourse. And as for lesbians, well, there's a species I will _never_ purport to understand, but I'm sure they would each of them tell you that a gold star does not a virgin make."

Renji was fuzzy on what stars of any color had to do with anything, but he was reasonably sure he got the gist of was Yumichika was saying, and so he grunted in assent and moved on.

"What about Valentine's Day and White Day, then?"

"What about them?"

"Well, if I give him something on Valentine's Day, does that make me the girl? Or if I give him something on White Day, will he think I think _he's_ the girl?"

Yumi looked at him blankly. "You are _both men,_" he said, slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Or male, in any case."

"I know that!" Boy, did he ever. . . "But I don't wanna offend him or anything. But I also don't want him to think--"

"Abarai-kun, if something as inconsequential as a holiday has the ability to invert your genitalia, you have _far_ greater things to be concerned about. If you want to give him chocolate on Valentine's Day, then give him chocolate on Valentine's Day; if you would rather do so on White Day, then do so on White Day. Or neither day, or both. It's not compulsory, it's a gesture of affection. I'm sure Kuch--"

"_Shhh!_"

"Oh _honestly._ I'm sure _the object_ of your affections would be shrewd enough to discern the guilelessness of your intentions and not mistake them for some ill-conceived notion of your sexual superiority."

"Good," said Renji, "'cause that's the last thing I'd want him to think."

"Trust me, you needn't worry."

Oblivion intact, the redhead loosed a relieved breath, stretched and folded his arms behind his head as they walked. "So I've found my way onto Rukia's shit list."

Yumi's eyes widened until his lashes grazed his brow bone. "She doesn't _know?_"

"Know? No! No. God, no. I just didn't call her, and apparently when she talked to Byakuya about picking me up, she didn't hang up on him with an assurance than he _would,_ so when she didn't hear from me after a while she called Yoruichi and, uh, caught her at a very bad time."

"She woke her up?"

"No, no, she was awake."

"Oh?" Yumi frowned, then gasped in realization, "_Ohhh._"

"Yeah," sighed Renji. "_Oh._ And so when she and Urahara-sensei went down to the police box to pick me up, and I wasn't there. . ."

". . .Rukia-chan was left with egg on her face and a newfound inability to ever look either of them in the eye again?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"The poor thing."

"Hey, she brought it on herself! It's not like she couldn't have swallowed her pride for five minutes and called Byakuya again to ask if he got me."

Yumichika pressed his lips together. "Hmm. I believe I'm going to have to side with Rukia-chan on this one, Abarai-kun. She _did,_ after all, swallow her pride to call him for you in the first place, which has honestly left you indebted to her in more ways than she knows."

Renji opened his mouth, wanting badly to argue with that -- then closed it, knowing he couldn't.

He had _so_ much groveling to do.

". . .her birthday's coming up."

"Then might I suggest that the Chappy & Friends store come to exceedingly value your patronage in the very near future."

"Aa. . ."

They quieted when room 906 came into view, and Yumi paused a few feet from the door to allow Renji to approach it on his own. He looked back over his shoulder.

"Wish me luck," he said quietly, then reached for the handle, tried it--

--and found it locked.

"Good luck," Yumi offered.

Renji's head dropped, more in disappointment than surprise.

"Fuck. I had a feeling this might happen." He pounded hard, twice, on the door. "Kuchiki-sensei? Oi, Sensei, you in there?"

No response.

Renji sagged against the wall and combed a hand through his ponytail.

"He's avoiding you," said Yumi, leaning next to him.

"Yeah, well, it's not gonna work. There's no way I'm gonna go easy on him _now._"

"Oh, you're like the Little Engine That Could! It makes my heart swell. And my--"

"Don't say unnecessary things!"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, a line of first-period students had joined them in loitering outside Kuchiki-sensei's classroom door, speculating on the unusual tardiness of their teacher. He wasn't officially late (the first bell had yet to ring); what was odd was that he wasn't _early._ Had he gotten sick over winter recess, and their substitute was still being prepped in the main office? Had his car broken down on the way to school? Had he overslept? _Did_ he sleep, or did he just sort of power down for a few hours at a time, as many of them suspected of Kurotsuchi-sensei? Where _was_ he?

"Where indeed?" Yumichika asked, not even attempting to contain his smirk.

"Shut up," Renji groused, shooting the androgyne a sideways glare.

Then, ears proverbially pricking, he cast his eyes down the hallway, to the staircase that led to the social sciences building's ground floor.

Kuchiki-sensei ascended the last couple of steps, turned and, to his credit, didn't pause at the sight of Renji, but averted his eyes as he wordlessly proceeded to his classroom door, unlocked and opened it to allow his first period students entrance. He looked just as collected, just as elegant as usual, but the faint, tattletale gray crescents beneath his eyes spoke of more than one sleepless night in the week that had passed since the induction of the new year.

_Dreaming of me should leave you looking better than that,_ Renji thought dismally, and waited for the last student to enter the room before inserting himself between the threshold and his history teacher.

Byakuya regarded him coldly. "Abarai."

It might have been a question, or a statement, or a dare. Renji swallowed back the heavy, burning feeling that had blossomed in his chest and was creeping, vine-like, up his throat.

"Just reporting for duty, Sensei. Is there anything you need?"

He waited on tenterhooks, poised between slanting blades.

Byakuya looked at him for two excruciatingly long, emotionless seconds before answering, "No. I will not at any time be requiring your assistance today. Excuse me."

He maneuvered lithely through the space between Renji and the doorjamb into his classroom, and with clenched fists and gritted teeth, the redhead stepped aside to let the door fall shut behind him just as the first bell rang.

So that was the way it was going to be.

"Yumichika."

Yumi, who had very slowly begun to wander away when Kuchiki-sensei had first appeared, returned to Renji's side in a flash.

"Hmmm?"

"What would you say to an all-night cram session tonight? Y'know, to get started on prepping for finals."

A small, amused smile curled the androgyne's lustrous lips. "I'd say you are welcome to further your scholastic advancement at my home anytime you wish, Abarai-kun."

"Good," said Renji. "That's what I was hoping you'd say."

"Hey, Ayasegawa."

They both turned to find Shuuhei approaching them. At least, he seemed to be considering doing so -- he stopped a few feet before he reached them and hung back, looking awkward and uncertain.

". . .Abarai," he acknowledged after a moment.

"Senpai," Renji nodded, then glanced between him and Yumi. "Guess that's my cue--"

"No, Abarai-kun," Yumichika halted him with a hand on his arm. "Stay. Yes, Hisagi-san? Do you want something?"

"I just, uh. . ." Shuuhei shifted his weight, the color rising in his cheeks. "Kensei thinks he might've left a pack of guitar strings at your place, and I, uh, I told him I'd ask you if I could come over and look for them. After school."

Renji bit down hard on his bottom lip in an effort not to laugh.

An unsuccessful effort.

"Bwahaha!" he howled. "Hahaha! Aah! Oh, shit, Senpai, you just made me feel _so_ much better about myself! Ahahahaha!"

Shuuhei scowled, his face darkening further. "Fuck you, Abarai. Just. . .fuck, forget it! Just keep an eye out for them!" He stormed off, and it wasn't until he had made it down the stairs and probably all the way to Tousen-sensei's classroom that Renji's schadenfreudean outburst ebbed into tittering, mostly-controllable giggles.

"Oh, God, I needed that," he sighed, then looked contritely at Yumi. "I'm sorry, man, I really am, but--"

"Don't worry about it," Yumichika assured him, smiling enigmatically.

"Wha-- Seriously?" Renji blinked at him, disturbed. "You sick or somethin'?"

"Not at all. In fact I've rarely felt better. Your concern is appreciated, though, thank you."

"Uh. . .'kay." Renji inched sideways. "I'll just be. . .going to class, then. . ."

Yumi nodded serenely. "You do that. I'll see you in fourth."

* * *

The day passed at a torturously slow pace for Kuchiki Byakuya. In particular, his sixth period hour seemed to be taking _decades._

He had left his classroom only once, to lunch off-campus at a nearby fast-food establishment, unable to stomach the prospect of Urahara Kisuke's (who was to blame for the entire situation, Byakuya was convinced) imminent, "harmless" teasing in the staff lounge -- and unable to trust that the apparently freakishly perceptive man wouldn't be able to decipher his recent transgressions as easily as if Byakuya had fallen asleep with his face pressed against their freshly-inked blueprints. The history professor's telephone conversation with Shihouin (annoyed in places, he'd noted with satisfaction) the afternoon of had been bad enough, not least because it had served to further hammer home the fact that Rukia did not trust him.

Nor should she, he thought ruefully. Nor could Renji, or anyone else, including himself: not when he was so susceptible to wrongness, and every choice he had ever made had been ill-timed, improper, unscrupulous, damaging, unwanted or unwise.

His decision to study abroad, where his appetite for academia had first been whetted and encouraged by the distance from his family and his exposure to the Western advocacy of individualism, which, his grandfather assured him, earned him nothing but the resentment of his ancestors who had worked so hard to bring honor and glory to the whole of their clan.

His marriage to a common waitress, which had garnered him the further disdain of his kin as well as that of his societal peers, and their smugness when it had ended in tragedy.

His mutually unappreciative relationship with Rukia, and how nothing he ever said or did seemed to please her, even when that nothing was, quite literally, an absence of anything at all.

One wrong choice after another. The _freedom_ to choose wrongly? Byakuya was _dictated_ by his passions, and Abarai Renji had a loathsome talent for reigniting them all.

Abarai Renji, the boy with the wolfish smile who had provoked Byakuya into playing the predator. The impoverished, individualistic, impulsive idealist who outwardly expressed with ease every devil-may-care unconventionality Byakuya had admired, attempted, and failed to achieve. The smoldering charcoal to his cold ash, who rubbed his face in the cinders of his own irrepressible capacity for recklessness that he had vowed, after one hard lesson too many, to smother; who reminded him that his nuclear winter had once been a bomb, and that the desolation of its aftermath had become no less devastating than the blast (a blast which had been so damnably _warm,_ and bright, and that for a handful of years he had at least been able to see as an angelic host instead of a holocaust--).

It was his curse, that every attempt he made to live in the moment resulted in it being one of weakness. Conscientious self-containment had been the only of his decisions by which those who surrounded him had remained, if not happy, then at least relatively unharmed.

And he. . .he could endure it. For nearly five years, he had endured it -- the consumption of pain and its transformation into emptiness. It was a suffocating process, but he'd discovered the aeriform state of sorrow to be far easier to breathe than tears, and the end result bore little to no weight at all.

He hadn't known, until Renji lit the match, that it was a substance even more incendiary than oxygen; now he couldn't close his eyes without seeing the afterimage of the flame.

That angry, pleading, earnest gaze. That well-favored face, so open and ingenuous. That form, so thoughtlessly shaped through constant movement, and so casually revealed, screaming free in a whisper of silk.

_Good God,_ _he's disrobing,_ had been Byakuya's first thought upon sight of it.

He hadn't had much of a second one, having been too suddenly and completely absorbed in his visual documentation of the lines of Renji's sharp, narrow hips cutting into Byakuya's own low-slung pyjama bottoms, of the gold and black skin overlaying a frame far too sinfully well-muscled for its age, and of that _hair_ -- that cherry-red hair, as vibrant and multifaceted as rubies beneath a jeweler's glass, still mussed from slumber and snaking silkily over broad shoulders and down a still-pristine, powerful back. . .

It wasn't until after he'd robotically acquiesced to his teacher's aid's terms regarding their duel that he'd even recognized he'd been staring, and conjured some hollow excuse as to why.

Renji's response, of course, had alleviated nothing. And he had been right: like hell Byakuya had not meant to strike him where and as hard as he had. Their entire exchange up to that point had done nothing but frustrate and infuriate him, and he had sorely wanted -- _needed_ -- to cut the boy down, to show him his place.

As if the history professor even knew where that was any longer.

And that mortifying, reprehensible loss of control had only led to another: one that had left _him,_ Kuchiki Byakuya, one month shy of thirty years old, esteemed shaper of young, impressionable minds and heir to a multi-trillion-yen corporation, petting and pawing and frotting like a bungling teenager -- _with_ a bungling teenager -- on his dojo floor, every nerve ending ablaze with puerile prurience, already on the verge of shaming himself in his trousers by the time they were pushed alongside wrinkled silk down his hips and thighs by rough, impatient hands, only to be replaced by the hot, hard weight of _Renji_ against him.

Then the humid glide of skin against skin, so familiar and yet so foreign; the intermingling scents of sweat and leather on the fingers twisting in his hair; toes splaying and curling, bodies rocking, a shoulder blade cutting into his palm and everywhere that mouth, that rapacious mouth, unable to be still even in the absence of real language, unable to be silent, speaking carnal oaths against Byakuya's flesh; it had been forever and it was happening so fast, everything quickening, everything, hot and dizzy and heartsick and desperate and_ Renji--_

Byakuya's hold on his pen tightened, causing an upward stroke on the character for "good" to cross into another it oughtn't to have touched.

. . .it had, without a doubt, been the crudest, basest, most inelegant and undignified sexual encounter Byakuya had ever experienced -- omitting the knowledge that, in spite of the brevity of their exchange, it had also been the most fervid, exhilarating, enlivening, and salaciously exciting. Pressed for the truth, he would have called the event incomparable. Extraordinary. Ambiguous words from an ambivalent mind.

If only Renji were inclined to toe such lines.

In love with him. The boy had said he was in love with him, would not die on him because he had already died _for_ him. _You can trust me,_ he'd implied, _trust me not to leave. Trust me to stay with you, always._

How could one so young speak with such conviction? Moreover, how had he managed to sound so abominably convincing? Their. . .physical compatibilities aside, what had Byakuya to noetically gain from a person nearly half his age and with only a fraction of his education? While hardly stupid, neither was Renji leaps and bounds ahead of the cerebral curve (nor would he ever be, if he did not soon invest in some form of protective headgear). He still had much to learn, and would do so at an industrious but unremarkable pace. Would Byakuya not eventually grow impatient, waiting for him to catch up?

But was he not a teacher? Did he not choose to become one owing to his desire to not only preserve knowledge, but distribute it? And had he himself not explained to Renji the satisfaction that was to be won through even such industrious, unremarkable efforts?

Hot-blooded and unhindered, dedicated, not scholarly, but studious: was Renji not the sensual manifestation of every variant passion Byakuya had ever possessed?

His pen, like his mouth, ran abruptly dry, embossing an inkless mark of Poor at the top of a test sheet. He opened his desk drawer to retrieve a new reservoir, and met with his dear wife's face: a framed photograph he did not display so as not to incite the interest -- and painful questions -- of his students.

Hisana smiled up at him tenderly, her eyes bittersweet even before her illness, already stained by the sadness of her early life -- or by some strange foresight of her future one.

Or Byakuya's.

He ran his fingertips along the cold, flat image of her pale cheek. How would she have judged his recent misconduct?

She had always proclaimed him (mistakenly, in his opinion) to be a man of plenteous love; perhaps, he now thought, she had been right, but like him, in the wrong sort of way.

Love he had -- not plenteous, but rampant. A ferocious, consuming thing, too like the thing which had consumed her. A contagious cancer of the heart: exceedingly rare and immeasurably deep, it moved breathlessly fast, and was always fatal. His emotions ran like a high fever, even when his body lay in a cold and celibate bed. Had somatic desire been the root cause of his affliction, he would _far_ sooner have employed a partner for the relief of what unignorable breakthrough lusts might have plagued him than permitted himself to succumb to the ardent mouth and fire-tipped fingers of an underage pupil; but sex for its own sake, contact without connection, had always struck within him an off-putting, vacuous chord.

Renji was in love with him. The way he'd spoken and the things he'd spoken of left no room for even Byakuya's well-developed sense of doubt to operate. Renji's infatuation in no way resembled that of his anteceding classmates because it was not Kuchiki-sensei he had been pining for, nor even, after a time, Kuchiki Byakuya, but Byakuya alone. The man, and not the master.

Renji _loved_ him, and Byakuya had taken advantage of that love, had used it in order that he could feel. . .

. . .that he could _feel_ -- more than the heat of skin-against-skin, more than the scrape of teeth and tongue upon that sultry surface, and the mechanical motions that had tensed an already coiled spring inside of him to its breaking point -- that he could feel something he had never anticipated he would feel again; something he had all but _sworn_ not to feel again.

She had made him make no such promise, but then, neither had she demanded he find another with whom to share his heart, and he had no way of knowing whether her silence on the subject had been the result of mercy, fear, or determination. Was he betraying her memory, or indulging it?

A part of him believed she would have wished the hopeful, fiery boy she'd fallen in love with every scant chance at happiness, no matter how outlandish, especially had she glimpsed a vision of Renji's future self, man-grown and granite-carved.

Another part of him, one that would forever be dabbing the tears from her cheeks with the mottled end of a silken headscarf, could recall only the pain and regret in her eyes in the moment, wretched and unspoken, she'd acknowledged to herself that she would be leaving this life, and that she could not take him with her.

He closed the drawer rather harder than necessary, eliciting a few startled jumps and inquisitive glances from his class, which he glared into submission.

All but one.

_Hisana. . ._

_Hisana, I am so sorry._

* * *

Renji took a rare leaf from Fong Shaolin, and channeled ninjas.

Dressed in boots and black jeans, a black sweater and gloves, and a black zip jacket he'd "borrowed" from Iba, he furtively navigated his way through the well-to-do streets of Reiryo-ku. It was only a little before six, but the sun had already set, and in the darkness he was all but invisible save the last few spiky inches of his scarlet ponytail that was otherwise concealed by a wide black dreadband.

The way was long but sparsely populated -- each palisaded front yard seemed to take up the length of an entire block, and he figured he must have passed five at most by the time he reached the pale gates of his destination.

Renji exhaled robustly, his breath forming an impressive cloud in the gelid January air.

_Here goes nothin'. . ._

He pushed the page button on the call box, holding it down slightly longer than necessary to make sure the buzzer or the bells or whatever other sound effect was produced on the other end of the line was heard.

A few seconds of quiet followed, and then, finally, a wary but familiar #Yes?#

"Byakuya, open up, it's me."

A beat.

#What are you doing here?#

"Freezing my balls off." _Hopefully he won't think that's a good thing. . ._ "Now open up or I'm climbing the gate."

A second long moment passed, and Renji was poised to leap up and grab hold of the whitewashed curly-cues ornamenting the top of the gate when a mechanical buzzing sound stayed his hands. He jogged past the still-opening gate, half-expecting it to slam shut again when he was midway through, but walked at what he hoped was a dignified pace the rest of the distance to the semi-transparent house at the end of the drive.

A light came on in the foyer. Kuchiki-sensei -- or rather, someone who was trying very hard to reclaim that exclusionary title -- met him at the door.

The gray collegiate sweatshirt he wore didn't help, no matter how prestigious the alma mater it proclaimed. Renji still enjoyed but was by now accustomed to the jeans. He was inordinately disappointed by the thick, slubby white socks.

"You know how much I loathe repeating myself." The scent of dark liquor was heavy on Byakuya's breath, but not heavy enough that it masked his words' double meaning.

Renji ignored the sting.

"Has anyone ever told you you're pretty hot when you're being deliberately obtuse?"

Pewter eyes widened -- in shock, anger, or maybe both.

"Do try not to use such large words, Renji. You'll exhaust yourself."

Definitely both.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one trying to drink myself into a stupor."

"No," Byakuya conceded. "No, I imagine you never have to try -- or drink -- to arrive at that destination, but alas, not all of us are so naturally talented."

"Us? Is that a royal 'we'?"

Byakuya said nothing, and Renji didn't wait to pounce upon the moment.

"Look," he said, speaking with the confidence of having rehearsed at least this much on the walk over from Reiryo Station, "you're the one who said I shouldn't sell myself short, right? I didn't do this at school because I'm not a moron, and because there you're my teacher first, and I know that's important to you and I wanted to respect that; but make no mistake, we _are_ gonna at least talk about this, and _you_ need to respect _me_ enough to realize that I'm not gonna just roll over and let you ignore what happened between us. I don't do tricks, remember?"

Byakuya listened to all this in silence, and was quiet for another few seconds still before he ruefully shook his head -- and it might have been the angle of the shadows, but Renji thought he even saw him smirk -- turned, and moved deeper into the house, leaving the door open and waving vaguely behind him that Renji could do as he willed.

The redhead sat down in the genkan to remove his boots, and added his bookbag (in which he'd stowed one of his school uniforms) and Iba's jacket to the dead-tree coat stand. He found Byakuya in a billiard room paneled with black lacquered wood. Four hanging lamps like frosted glass sedge hats, dark pink at their points and fading into pale rims, cast a warm, slightly rosy glow throughout the room that brought out the high flush in Byakuya's cheeks. He swirled a half-empty tumbler of clinking ice and alcohol in his right hand.

* * *

"You shouldn't have come here," he said, and downed the last of his drink.

"Relax," said Renji. "No one saw me, an' Sousuke thinks I'm crashin' at Yumichika's."

"That's not what I meant."

Renji's gaze met his and held it. Byakuya's eyes watered slightly, straining against the desire to look away.

"Whatever you think you came here for. . .it will not happen, Renji."

"Yeah, you said that before, too. It didn't work then, either."

Byakuya's jaw tensed as an unbidden thrum of heat was plucked from his spine.

The scotch.

"That," he said quietly, "was a mistake. One I have no intention of making again."

"Yeah, well." Renji leaned easily against the pool table, one hip to the wood, both hands splaying backward against the rich cerise felt. "Your intentions aren't the only ones up for consideration here, Byakuya."

"Do not call me that."

The redhead snorted. "Why? Because we're not fucking?"

"No. We're not."

"That's an easy fix."

Byakuya held up a hand. "Do not come any closer."

Renji hesitated, then took another step forward. "Why not? Are you afraid of what I'll do?"

Kuchiki-sensei endeavored to look forbidding, but could give no verbal reply.

"Afraid of what _you'll_ do?" Renji pushed on, knowing that the older man's pride would not allow him to back away, until they were standing toe-to-toe. "I don't wanna have to fight you first every time we do this."

"_We_ are not doing anything, Renji; _you_ are going-- Take your hands off me!"

"Why? 'cause they feel good?"

"_Yes!_"

Renji paused, caught off-guard by the admission, and Byakuya twisted out of his grasp. He concentrated on the chilliness of his glass, hoping to dispel the lingering heat from his upper arms where his pupil's hands had held him.

"That's not. . .that's not a bad thing, Sensei," Renji said softly. "It's supposed to feel good when, when other people touch you."

Byakuya jerked his head in a sharp negative. _It isn't. It shouldn't._

An exasperated sigh climbed up Renji's throat as he looked briefly to the carved ceiling. "Okay, I hate having to say this, it makes me feel like a total asshole, but for a guy who's so against performing animals, you sure do play an awful lotta dead."

It had the desired effect (that is, any effect at all): Byakuya's head snapped up, a sudden, algid fury frosting over his storm-gray eyes.

"Get out of my house, Renji."

The redhead squared his stance. "Make me."

Byakuya's eyes strayed to the boy's right temple, where a shiny pink scar now stood in place of an angrier wound. "You know I can."

"So do it," Renji shrugged. "C'mon, Sensei. Kick my ass. Kick me out."

"You wish for me to hurt you again."

"No, I _wish_ for you to stop bluffing."

"Bluffing?" Byakuya balked, but saw his proverbial window, and ran a finger along its casing, searching for drafts. "This is not a _game,_ Renji. That you can even draw such an analogy only leads me to surmise that the feelings you profess to harbor for me do not run as deeply as you claim. You cannot be unaware of the consequences that would result if someone were to discover what transpired between us. _You_ would likely escape relatively unscathed; I, on the other hand, would be subjected to the loss of my reputation, my career, and very possibly my freedom and my birthright. And you are willing to risk that. You are willing to risk _me_ for the sake of yourself."

"_I_ would escape unscathed? Do you have any idea what--" He caught the sentence by the tail and dragged it back, his lips frozen in the rounded beginnings of an O or a U or an R. He shook his head. "No, I'm not even gonna go there yet. Yes, I _am_ willing to risk all of that. And so are you."

"I'm not. I c--. . ." Byakuya checked himself, but the rest of the word was simple enough to discern. ". . .I do not love you, Renji."

Renji shrugged again, and Byakuya raised a speculative eyebrow.

"You do not care?"

"Of course I care. But it would be really fuckin' quick if you did, and even then. . .I don't think you'd own up to it."

"You believe you know me so well?"

"A lot better than most."

The words were laden with meaning. Byakuya suppressed a shiver, then silently berated himself for having so foolishly stepped into that one. He unstoppered one of half-a-dozen crystal decanters resting on a dark brick-and-ebony bar, then changed his mind, but refilled his glass anyway before setting it aside, unwilling to appear indecisive in any respect.

He closed his eyes and drew a carefully measured breath. "Renji, what happened between us was. . .staggering, but it was a grave lapse in judgment on my part to have. . ._unburdened_ myself upon you in such a way. In _any_ way."

Renji's eyebrows utilized the hooks of his tattoos as footholds as they climbed up his forehead. "'Unburdened?'" he repeated. "What, like you just used me as a pack mule for your sexual baggage?"

"That is precisely what I did."

"No," Renji shook his head. "No, I'm not buying that."

"Then allow me to buy it _for_ you."

"What?"

"How much will it take? One hundred thousand? One million? Name your price. It can be here within the half-hour. Consider it payment for services rendered."

Renji gaped at him in disbelief. He blinked slowly, once, twice. ". . .wow. Wow, that's. . ." He took a deep, shaky breath and scratched at the back of his neck. "Goddamn, Sensei, I think that hurts worse than the head wound did. . ."

He looked down. His lips quivered -- into a smile. He looked up again and raised a hand to cup his teacher's astonished face, grazing one sharp cheekbone with his thumb.

". . .and you must really be at your wit's end if you honestly think I'm gonna fall for it. You think you're the first person to try and belittle me into submission? I'm used to feeling inadequate, especially around you, but I decided a long time ago that no one was _ever_ gonna make me feel _unworthy._"

Byakuya stared at him, frustrated, discomfited. . .and execrably, ignominiously relieved. He exhaled a short, sharp breath, something between an incredulous scoff and a bitter sigh. "I did have to try." _What kind of person would I be if I had not?_

"You didn't. You don't. Enough tests, Sensei -- _Byakuya._ You're not my teacher here. You can't fail me."

"I can. I will." _I already have; it's what I __**do**__. Why can't you understand that? Your fangs are venomous and I am diseased and whatever way this runs, when it is over, we will have __**destroyed**__ one another._

Renji shrugged. "Then I'll retake the course, as many times as it takes." His hand slid down to Byakuya's shoulder, and the older man tensed, startled, as he was pulled into an embrace. Renji's chest was solid and warm against his own, shoring up his want, walling off his will. "Weren't you listening? To me, not being good enough doesn't mean I should quit -- it just means I have to work harder.

"I _will_ learn you, forwards and backwards," his pupil promised, skimming his mouth along the vertically angled slope of Byakuya's neck and accelerating the pace of his pulse. "Where to touch you, and how, and when. I'll memorize the sounds you make, and the look on your face when you're about to come. . ."

Desire condensed and dripped down Byakuya's spine as the hot whisper preceded the graze of a tongue-tip along the shell of one sensitive ear, a soft nip of teeth in the auricle. He shuddered visibly, his fingers automatically tightening around thick cable knit he couldn't remember taking hold of in the first place.

"Renji. . ." _How do you do this to me? How do you already seem to __**know**__. . ._ "You are _so_ young. You cannot yet possibly know what you truly desire from life. In five years -- in _one_ -- so many doors will have opened for you."

"That doesn't matter!" Renji argued. "I'd rather break yours down and be with you _now._"

"You should learn to heed more than your hormones."

"That's not all I'm talking about, and you know it."

And how Byakuya wished he could have wished he didn't. _Now_ meant _better than never._ It meant _I would regret forever not having had you when and for as long as I could._

Even had he known then what he knew now.

But even now, knowing what he'd learned since then?

He lifted a hand to Renji's throat, ran his fingers over the ebony marks he could see but could not feel, like inverted proxy expressions of his own underlying scars. _This is for you. . ._

If this boy wanted to surpass him, to _succeed_ him. . .

_Oh, Renji,_ Byakuya thought, shaking his head in dismay, _in such a story, you have already taken my place._

"Please let me in, Byakuya," the boy pleaded, mistaking the gesture of resignation for one of refusal. "I told you, I'm not goin' anywhere until you do."

"Foolish," the history professor murmured, "impetuous. . ."

The redhead raked an angry hand through the tangled spikes of his ponytail. "_Damn it,_ Byakuya--"

"I was referring to myself."

"Oh. No," Renji protested, "no, you're not, you're just. . .exceptional." He smiled, proud of his citation. "Surpassing that which is the expected standard."

"You, Renji, are the last thing I ever expected. The Spanish Inquisition of Seireitei Academy, year twelve."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

Resignation accrued, Renji moved to finalize the contract, but was forestalled by Byakuya's hand on his chest.

"This will not happen at the Academy, ever, in any respect," the history professor -- or in this case, the future CEO -- dictated.

Renji shook his head in agreement.

"You will receive no special treatment in my class, and will be shown no leniency in regard to your duties as my teacher's aid, your assignments, or the marks either will afford you."

"I wasn't expecting any."

"You will tell no one. _No one._"

"Of course not." But Renji's eyes flickered momentarily to the left. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Byakuya frowned. "Renji. . .?"

The redhead moistened his lips and shifted his weight.

"Look, I didn't _tell_ him anything; he figured it out on his own. And he gave me one of his phones, so if Sousuke calls--"

Byakuya halted the divulgence with a stoically lifted hand. "Who?"

"Yumi."

He closed his eyes. "Ayasegawa Yumichika."

"If you knew him, you'd know it wasn't my fault! He's got this sixth sense, it's like--"

"Can he be trusted?"

Renji did, at least, take long enough to reply that Byakuya could infer he had given the matter actual thought.

"Unless you've got any designs on Madarame or Hisagi-senpai, yeah," the redhead decided. "Yeah, I think he'd take it to his grave. And. . ."

Byakuya's eyes opened and narrowed warily. "And?"

"Kira knows, kind of -- but he only knows how I feel about you," Renji added hastily, "not that anything's actually happened. And he won't find out, I _promise_ you he won't find out."

Byakuya sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "It cannot be helped. This is not an auspicious beginning. . .although," he shrugged, "I don't suppose I could rightly hope for one. But _no one else,_ Renji, is to know. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of discretion--"

Renji, who had been listening to him with anxious energy, tided suddenly towards him and silenced both his mouth and his mind with a kiss that could have coaxed a buddha back to darkness, and Kuchiki Byakuya _burned_ -- had burnt, would burn, like the rotted wood that was his namesake, for the second love that was Renji's. Scatterhearts, the both of them, with sleepy eyes and hurricane heads.

"I get it, Byakuya," Renji assured him when the kiss broke, leaving Byakuya feeling lightheaded and cherry bombed. "I mean. . .I understand."

Byakuya bowed his head, permitting his brow to rest upon the redhead's shoulder. "Renji, your hands. . ." he murmured, ". . .they feel good."

Dirtying his heart as she had done, greasy fingerprints on glass that could be smeared, but never wiped away.

They stole now under the fabric of his shirt, accompanied by a warm press of lips against the side of his neck, and a pledge that threatened the stability of his knees: "They can feel better."

_Hisana, I am so sorry. . .but neither was I able to deny my want of you._

* * *

_As stale and selfish as a sick dog  
Spurning sex like an animal of God  
I'll tear your red hair by the roots  
__And hold you __**blazing**  
Hold you __**cherished**__ in the dead electric light. . . _-- The Cure, "Shake Dog Shake"

* * *

**Omake**:

A dull thump was readily absorbed into the humid air as Byakuya's back hit the mattress. Breathing heavily, head spinning, he stared up at the ceiling and jotted down a quick and admittedly sloppy mental note to adjust his housekeeper's wages.

"Holy fuck," Renji panted, not inaccurately, beside him. "That was. . .holy _fuck_. . ."

"Quite," Byakuya breathlessly agreed.

"You're. . ."

"I know."

"And _I'm_. . ."

"Surprisingly so."

"Goddamn. . .now I understand why Yumichika always bottoms. . ."

"Renji."

"Huh?"

"Don't say unnecessary things."

"Sumimasen," Renji rumbled, but Byakuya could hear the boy's grin around the word.

The night was moonless, and so Byakuya's bedroom was dark even despite the knees-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around it in place of two walls. They were probably fogged anyway, he thought, but found he lacked the strength, energy and general give-a-damn to check. Idly he closed his eyes and curled his fingers where his hand had come to rest upon the sweat-slick and still slightly jumping muscles of Renji's abdomen, uncertain of whose racing pulse he felt becoming gradually calmer in or beneath his fingertips. Satiety blanketed his body in sleepy heat, and he allowed it, for the first time in years, to sink its way into the languid marrow of his bones.

"What the hell. . .Byakuya, what's this?"

The ceiling came abruptly once again into view as pewter eyes shot open. Byakuya's blood ran cold and his dignity, short, as he slowly turned his head, pupils still pleasure-blown enough to make out the menacing countenance of a stuffed felt Seaweed Ambassador.

"Put that away," he ordered.

"You mean back under your pillow?" The amusement in Renji's voice bordered on mockery.

"Abarai," Byakuya warned.

Renji chortled with laughter. "Oi, Byakuya, I know I said I wouldn't tell anybody about _us,_ but _this_. . .this is just _begging_ to be broadcast in hi-def."

"Abarai Renji, you are skating on extremely thin ice. I suggest you proceed with utmost caution."

"Or what, your vitamin powers will go _boom boom?_"

". . ."

Renji perched the plush on Byakuya's chest and lowered his voice to a gruff growl. "Tell me, Kuchiki-sama, are you filled with the power of waka-- _augh!_

"Sens-- _oof!_

"Byaku-- _gah!_

"_Ow!_ Did you just fucking _bite_ me?!"

"You were not complaining when I did so earlier."

"Well yeah, but that was-- _mmf_. . ."

Renji went lax and blessedly -- or at the very least, _wordlessly_ -- silent beneath him. Byakuya felt strong hands rise to caress his sides, his back, felt the hot rush of reviving desire flutter back to life low in his belly, and he blindly tossed the offending item across the room in favor of putting his own hands to much better use.

"Oh, wow," Renji breathed against his lips, "I think your vitamin powers _do_ go _boom boom_. . ."

"Renji. . ."

"Lemme guess: don't say unnecessary things?"

"Close. Shut up, Renji."

"Hai, Kuchiki-taishi. . ."

* * *

**A/N**: _Wakame Taiiishiiiiii. XD And dear me, I actually made a deadline for once. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! ♥3♥ __Thanks so much for reading!_


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